


Beach

by Excellency, Martha



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, References to Torture, Smarm, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 23:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 78
Words: 148,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4981657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Excellency/pseuds/Excellency, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Martha/pseuds/Martha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The hand that latched onto his trembled at the contact, then let go again as another sob was ripped from Jim's throat. The sounds Jim was making were almost words, almost understandable, but Blair knew he couldn't spare enough of his heart to listen to them now.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Sentinel Smarm Sanctuary.
> 
> Tread softly here, Seeker, you have reached the Central Mystery of the Temple. This is who we are.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He thought briefly of Naomi, and grief closed around his heart_

The splash didn't sound that much different than all the other wet sounds of the night around him, but somehow Blair knew it wasn't another natural sound of the surf or the rain. He turned instinctively, heading for the waterline, then beginning to jog along the edge of the surf toward the spot where the headlands rose up from the shingle. Straining his eyes, he peered into the darkness, searching the shallow water for some sign, fearing he would find one, wishing all the while he had Jim's abilities.

There was another bout of splashing and he dashed toward it, not caring how many other things it could be besides the one he feared. Along with the hissing sound of the rain on the sea, and the sea on the beach, now he could hear another, more painful sound, and it drove him to push into the surf further. "Jim!"

The choked cry of agony he heard in response made his skin go colder than the Alaskan current around his body. Wishing he'd tied his hair back, he pushed it angrily out of his eyes, wading deeper into the water, infuriated by how it slowed his progress.

Even so, it was only seconds later that he reached Jim. Ellison was flailing weakly in the water, closer to sinking than swimming, only the fact he could stand on the sloping bottom having saved him from drowning already. The sobbing sounds of pain that escaped his throat ran freezing shivers down Blair's spine. He had never heard James Ellison make a sound like that before, and he prayed he never would again, all the while fearing he might never hear anything else from him. The fear made him careful, though Jim's agonized cries made him frantic with the need to help. He called again, low and soft this time, as he approached to arms' length and reached out.

Jim cried out again, but this time there was a pleading note to it, and he turned helplessly toward Blair.

"Come on, Jim, let me help you," Blair said, unable to suppress the shiver from his own voice.

The hand that latched onto his trembled at the contact, then let go again as another sob was ripped from Jim's throat. The sounds Jim was making were almost words, almost understandable, but Blair knew he couldn't spare enough of his heart to listen to them now.

Hardening his resolve, Blair grabbed at the sleeve of Jim's shirt and tugged, trying to pull him toward the shore, coaxing in a low voice the whole time. Jim didn't precisely fight him, but neither was he able to help, caught in some hell of his own that left him none of his strength or control. After a few moments of fruitless struggle, Blair stopped pulling at Jim, and instead moved closer. While the water surged cold around his thighs, he lifted Jim's arm and laid it over his shoulders, then wrapped his arm around Jim's waist.

"OK, Jim, let's try it together. I'm getting kind of cold out here, so the sooner we can get outta the water the better, all right?" It was too dark for Blair to see the expression on Jim's face, but Jim's head turned toward him. "One step at a time, OK? Here we go."

The hand on Blair's shoulder tightened convulsively, and Jim made a terrible sound. Not quite a word. "Aw, Jim," Blair moaned. "Please, we gotta get out of the water."

The arm across Blair's shoulders suddenly felt heavier. Jim's knees had buckled, and he was falling. Blair fought to brace himself so he could support them both, but Jim's weight bore them down into the surf. Blair squeezed his eyes shut as the cold salt water dashed against his face, knowing that no matter what happened, he couldn't let go. He managed to grab Jim's shirt with both hands, but then the tide rushed back, and the current pulled Jim with it. Blair felt fabric tear under his hands and come loose. Jim was sliding from his grip.

"Jim!" Blair screamed, his eyes wide open now, heedless of the salt in his eyes and the water down his throat. He risked loosening his grip with one hand long enough to grab at the waistband of Jim's jeans, and managed to hook his hand around Jim's belt.

He pulled back, his heels sinking into the sand, shouting at Jim all the while. The water was shallow here, if Jim would just stand up they would be all right. But Jim didn't seem to understand him. Or couldn't understand him. Or maybe just didn't want to. He was on his knees, every wave that rolled up the shore threatening to sweep him away. He shook his head a little and coughed when the water hit his face, but he was doing nothing to help Blair, far less to help himself.

 _Dammit,_ Blair thought, frantic and furious. If he didn't do something both of them were going to drown in two feet of water. He wasn't strong enough to haul Jim out of the surf by himself. He was fighting as hard as he could, but he was no match for the tide that dragged Jim a little further away with every wave. His shoulders were burning from the strain, his feet buried so deep in the wet sand by now he wasn't sure how he would get himself to shore, much less Jim.

 _No. Not like this. Oh please, not like this._ Jim deserved so much better.

Blair released the grip he had on Jim's belt. The ruins of Jim's shirt swirled around him like seaweed, catching at Blair with spectrally trailing fingers. Even in the rain-washed darkness the white t-shirt Jim had left was faintly visible, making him look like a ghost alternately rising from and sinking back into the shifting, dark surface of the ocean. Standing beside him, Blair felt like a thin, cold spirit himself, powerless to move any part of the world around himself.

The sand held Blair's shoes in a grip like that of setting concrete and he dragged his feet out of them with a curse before dropping to his knees in the cold surf beside Jim. Jim's head was down, heedless of the foam and wavelets, but Blair took his head in both hands and raised it, forcing Jim to look at him. Blair still couldn't see the expression on his face. He knew Jim could see him, though, if he would only look.

Jim's sobs were much quieter now, but they hadn't stopped. Mindless, choked cries. Hopeless, helpless. The sound of them made Blair feel dizzy and sick, and he began to think a terrible thing. He didn't know if he could possibly bring Jim back from that dark place in his own mind. And if he couldn't, would Jim even want to survive?

No. No, he wouldn't. Blair knew that much about the man. Jim would rather let the ocean take him.

And if the sea took Jim, it might as well take Blair also.

He wrapped his arms around Jim's shoulders and pressed his face to Jim's cold cheek. The rain drizzled down, rinsing more salt from his hair into his eyes, but he kept them open, looking into the darkness. A wave smashed against them, but Blair braced himself and didn't move. It seemed to him, in that moment, that he could crouch there in the icy surf forever.

Or at least until Jim made his decision.

"It's your call," Blair said quietly. "I can't get you out by myself. I'm sorry, I just can't do it." He didn't know if there was enough of Jim left to reach, but he kept talking just the same. "I don't wanna die, man, but I'm not going to leave you. I'll stay right here, Jim. We'll do this together."

There was no response from Jim at all. Blair tried to hold him tighter, but the cold had numbed his fingers, and the long struggle in the freezing surf had weakened Blair more than he realized. He clung to Jim as half a dozen waves broke over them, foaming toward the shore in barely-seen patterns of white in the deep night, but finally one came that swept Blair away. He tumbled headlong, swallowing mouthfuls of burning salt water, his shoulder hitting the sandy bottom hard. He rolled again, his eyes open in the water, not knowing whether he was being pushed closer to shore or being dragged out to sea. Then his knees hit, and for a moment he got his head up.

Jim was gone.

An incoming wave rolled Blair again, and he didn't fight it. He thought briefly of Naomi, and grief closed around his heart. The next wave smashed him down hard. His chin scraped the bottom. _Jim, I'm sorry._

Then a hand closed around the back of Blair's collar. He was dragged above the waves by sheer force and, knowing who had him, Blair began to struggle for life again, gulping air desperately. His feet pushed against the bottom, and he resisted the next wave.

Jim wrapped his arm around Blair's ribs and pulled him forward, dragging them both toward the shore. A dozen paces, two dozen, the waves pulling them back with every step. Jim was roaring, screaming, but he didn't let Blair go. His forearm was bearing down with such force across Blair's ribs that Blair was shouting too, involuntary grunts of pain, but he didn't hear himself.

Jim was here. Blair had failed him, hadn't been strong enough for the two of them after all, but it was all right, Jim was back, and he would make it all right somehow.

They reached the rocky beach, stumbling and lurching together. Jim still hadn't let him go. Blair let himself be dragged further up the strand, but then Jim stumbled and they both fell heavily. Suddenly Jim was silent. Blair sat up, reaching for him. Jim lay where he had fallen, half curled on his side, knees drawn up.

"Jim." Blair put his hand on his shoulder and pushed a little. "Jim." When he still didn't respond, Blair laid his hand gently on Jim's face and found that his eyes were open. "Jim, can you hear me?"

Jim began to keen.

Something flashed in the distance. Crouched close over Jim, cradling his head with both hands, Blair risked glancing up.

There were flashlights up the beach. The men Jim had escaped were looking for him.

 

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Either was an end to the torment, the only goal he had left_

He had no memory of having dragged Sandburg out of the surf. He had no conscious memory of Sandburg at all. Sometimes, through the pounding assault of noise, he heard a gentler sound, one that soothed for a few moments instead of hurting. But it came and went, and he couldn't tell it from the flash of familiar-feeling blue that his vision passed in its wild swings. Clinging to those moments of not-pain was impossible, and he only knew brief surcease when they came, and deeper agony when they were gone again.

Jim couldn't tell he was crying, the sound of his own voice lost in the madness around him, the slight warmth of his own tears inconsequential in the sharp anguish of cold and harsh textures scraping his skin raw.

When the warm pressure descended on his mouth, the flash of pain at the contact was quickly gone, bringing with it the revelation he was capable of a sensation other than pain. Though he didn't know it, his voice stopped its keening, his lips trembling as they moved against the fingers laid there with soft urgency. For no reason he could begin to understand, the touch soothed him, allowed the rest of the torment of his battered body to recede just a little, just far enough he could stop wishing for death in every conscious moment.

The contrast confused him, making his whole body shake with the effort to reconcile the extremes. His own weight resting on the beach drove daggers of pain into his side, yet the pulse of blood faintly woven through the fine strength of the touch over his mouth gave him peace. He needed more of that contact, needed it to enfold him entirely and keep away all the pain, give him the time and a place to heal until he could think again on his own. "Please, Blair," he moaned, not knowing where the words came from or how they could form without his will.

This time, the sounds that soothed him carried meaning as well. "Jim, we have to move to cover. Now."

The contact was lifted, its warmth and the last trace of safety leaving as Blair's hand moved away, releasing him. Jim sobbed aloud at the agony of losing it, at the loss of the only thread of hope he knew.

"Shhh!"

Urgent and low, the sound nevertheless ripped through him, past the places where his control and defense would have been had they not been torn from him by force. Jim cringed, another sob catching in his throat, the damp, salt-laden air as cruel to breathe as pure fire. Then he gulped another breath, fervently wanting the destruction as much as he had sought salvation moments ago. Either was an end to the torment, the only goal he had left.

 

* * *

_Oh, Jim. I'm sorry, man. Oh god I'm sorry._ Blair didn't say the words out loud, though. He'd already done enough damage.

For a moment he had thought Jim was responding. Jim even managed to say his name. Then Blair had hissed that warning, and Jim flinched away as though he'd been shot. Hating himself for his carelessness, Blair wept inside, knowing the sibilance must have felt like a damn gunshot to the sentinel's wide-open senses. The big man twisted out of Blair's hands, his face turned desperately away, gulping air and shuddering with every breath.

Light flashed down the beach, across the waves. Loud, angry voices were just beginning to reach Blair over the roar of the surf. They had no need to be quiet. They were sure of their quarry.

Blair felt the heat of panic prickling across his scalp and knotting in his gut, shifting almost at once to a cold, desperate fury. He would not allow this happen. He wouldn't allow them to take Jim again. _So all right, Sandburg,_ he told himself furiously, _you've got about two seconds to make a decision, and it damn well better be the right one. Jim can't process language right now. But you've got to make him understand you. Stop the hurting enough to let him see you. Touch you._

Blair reached out again, his hands on Jim's shoulders, but he wasn't strong enough to hold him. Jim writhed away from him, half turning, knees drawn up, his arms crossed desperately over his own face. Terrible sounds poured from his mouth. Gibbers and moans. Soft, broken. Horrific. Hearing them, Blair felt the return of the despair that had nearly drowned them both in the surf.

And once again pushed it aside, raging. _Sorry, Jim. You made it this far, now we're gonna survive this or die trying._ He reached out, ready to touch the trembling shoulder that was turned away from him, that was trying to turn away from the whole world. But at the last moment he hesitated, unwilling to add more to a sensory burden that had driven Jim into madness.

Then the beam of a flashlight skittered across the sand within a few yards of the place where Jim and Blair lay huddled. If not for the heavy rain defusing the beam's power, the outermost edge of light might have brushed across them. There was no time for delay anymore.

Praying for Jim's forgiveness, praying he was doing the right thing, Blair put his hands on Jim's arm and shoulder and pulled him over onto his back. The sounds breaking from Jim's throat rose, despairing and terrified, so Blair clamped a hand over his mouth, because there was no time left to be gentle. Jim arched up against the pressure, eyes suddenly wide open, but Blair couldn't allow him to escape it. Keeping his hand over Jim's mouth, he flung himself down over Jim's straining body, pinning him to the wet sand with his weight.

In the first shock of contact Jim's back rose in a terrible arc, lifting Blair momentarily, and for an instant Blair thought he wouldn't be strong enough to hold him. But as powerful as Jim was, his strength was defused and broken. He fell back, shuddering, his head turning frantically from side to side, eyes still wide open and blind with terror.

Blair kept his hand pressed over Jim's mouth, but he managed to snake his other arm around Jim's neck. That stilled Jim's thrashing for a moment, but there was nothing in those eyes. Blair felt the tremors running one after another through the body under his own, and it was impossible to believe anything could break through so much trauma and pain.

But then, after a few endless moments, Jim's shuddering did seem to ease, just enough to make Blair think that maybe Jim did understand who was holding him. His heart soared with desperate hope, just as a flashlight stabbed through the darkness again. Jim's pursuers were perhaps a quarter of a mile down the beach.

Blair dropped his head fast. He didn't think they could be seen yet, but time was running out. Jim was breathing hard, limbs twitching, still struggling weakly under Blair's weight. But it wasn't his imagination, Blair thought. Jim wasn't as violent as he'd been even moments before. Then Jim's hands came up. He was still twisting, his head thrown back, muscles straining --

But his hands knotted in the back of Blair's shirt and held on hard.

 _Jim,_ Blair thought. _Oh, Jim._ But this time he was careful not to speak.

Jim's arms locked around Blair's back, holding him so tight his ribs were starting to ache, but the desperation of that embrace filled Blair's heart. He lifted his hand from Jim's mouth. Jim was still making soft noises, but the frantic edge was gone. Blair unwound his other arm from around Jim's neck so he could hold Jim's head with both hands, pushing his chin back to bare his throat. Lowering his head further, Blair touched his lips to the hollow of Jim's neck, tasting salt, feeling the sensitive flesh twitch and flinch under the soft pressure. The arms around Blair's back tightened.

Blair spoke without a whisper of breath, moving his lips against Jim's throat, forcing himself to believe he could reach Jim through the madness and confusion and pain. "Jim. Let me help."

Jim's hands shifted slightly, almost spreading wide, then clenched against Blair's back.

"We've got to go. We've got to get to cover. Jim, please let me help." He wondered how he would know if Jim were even capable of understanding, but there was no other way left to him. Blair had to be doing it right. Jim had to understand, because if he didn't, then the men who had done this to him would find the two of them here like this, and they would finish what they had started.

Jim moaned. So softly that Blair felt the hair on the top of his head moving from the breath and the thrum in Jim's voicebox before he realized he could hear the sound. Then Jim's arms relaxed. Came down, pushed weakly at Blair's shoulders.

 _Oh, Jim._ Blair eased himself up to crouch over him in the sand, sheltering him for those few seconds from the cold downpour. He took Jim's arm, gently as he could, slowly, knowing that every new sensation was a shock to Jim's battered system.

Jim allowed himself to be pulled up. He clutched at Blair, still moaning, and Blair realized from the blind, helpless way Jim reached out that his eyes were shut tight again, but he struggled to his feet nevertheless. Still afraid to risk the violence of speech, Blair wrapped his arm around Jim's waist and urged him forward. Jim's arms were heavy around his shoulders, his fists wrapped around handfuls of Blair's shirt as though he feared Blair would try to get away.

Blair urged him forward, supporting as much of Jim's weight as he could, the two of them lurching awkwardly up the strand toward the meager shelter of the rocky breakwater, barely visible as a deeper shadow against the cloud-blackened sky. In the shadow of the tumbled boulders, under cover of this dark, moonless night, Blair thought they would be able to hide until Simon's people or the feds could find them. They would be here soon, right? Surely Jim had been monitored when he went in. They must know something was wrong by now.

The tiny voice of despair in the back of Blair's head whispered that they should have been there to rescue Jim hours ago.

Then Jim's grip loosened. Blair grabbed desperately at him, trying to pull him along, wrapping his arms more tightly around Jim's waist. Jim wailed aloud as his knees buckled, and pushed Blair away with surprising force. Blair tried to reach for him in time, but he wasn't strong or fast enough to hold him, and Jim crumpled to the beach. Sprawled as if pounded flat by the rain, he shuddered and then went still, only his heaving sides giving any sign of life.

 _Oh dammit, dammit, dammit._ Blair fell to his knees beside him. A few more feet and they would have been in the shelter of the granite boulders. Here they were so exposed the next sweep of the flashlights might well reveal them to Jim's pursuers.

Then Blair realized something. After that first wail of pain, Jim hadn't let another sound escape him. He was still shattered, still broken, but he remembered enough to be quiet.

His sudden understanding of Jim's courage shocked Blair into movement. All weariness and weakness vanished. It would **not** be in vain. He wouldn't allow it. He lurched to his feet, leaned over, and grabbed one of Jim's outstretched arms, holding the wrist with both hands. Leaning backward, using his whole body for leverage, he dragged the inert form bodily across the last length of open sand. It must have been agony for Jim but hardly a whimper escaped him, even as Blair hauled him around behind the first, huge rock.

In the shelter at last of the tumbled granite boulders, Blair fell to his knees and gathered Jim close. He knew he was being too rough with him, but by this point he needed the comfort of the embrace as desperately as he suspected Jim did. His back against a rock, he hauled Jim up against himself, Jim's back pressed to his chest, Blair's arm wrapped around Jim's ribs. With his free hand he eased Jim's head back, gently, until it rested against Blair's shoulder. Jim was shivering violently, little sounds still escaping him, but they were muffled and soft. Jim was trying so hard to be quiet.

 

 

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A fear so large he couldn't name it yet_

Jim had been in pain forever.

There was no end, no beginning, only the constant state of it, and it was all he knew.

But outside his ability to remember there had been a beginning, and in the brief moments of sanity he gleaned from the evanescent touch that left him so bereft when it was gone, he remembered the bits and pieces of his life before the pain. The touch was there now, holding him, bleeding away his agony until he remembered who he was, and in the remembering of that, began to recall what had been done to him.

There had been a case, but its details merged with all the others until he wasn't sure of the names or dates. Only the faces stood out. The sly one who had pointed at him and said his real name, the angry one snarling about betrayal, the frightened one that turned to him before going blank and red. The face he saw most often was the leering one with the flat, brown eyes, the one that smiled when the hurting started, and laughed as it grew worse and worse, the leer turning into a death's-head grin frozen in the time that everything had overloaded beyond bearing.

There was more to the memories, something inside that felt very different from the surface of his pain, a fear so large he couldn't name it yet. A whispering voice had asked him something, wanted something he would not give, and the knowledge that he could no longer tell whether or not he had finally answered scared him into retreating from all thought.

Beyond that, he had no past. There was only the perception of pain as it had blossomed within and around him, becoming his entire universe. It was the sun that heated him, the depths of emptiness that froze him, the essence of his being.

Yet though it was all he was and all he knew, there was still a last spark that lived deep within him and sought life. Not mere existence, but the life that touched him now, that seeped warmth into his back. That was what had led him on in blind flight, not knowing his goal, only that he had to find it. Arching against it, he gasped, knowing he had to silence his agony, certain his only hope of staying conscious enough to do it was to sink his very being into the life that held him anchored.

The thin band of warmth across his chest shifted, driving fear through him that it would leave and he would float away on the tide of anguish. Desperately he clutched at it, trying to hold on, knowing it was his one chance at salvation.

Blair felt the sudden change. One moment Jim had been writhing against him, moaning in remembered terror and present pain. It had been all Blair could do to keep his arms locked around Jim's chest, to keep him pulled upright against him in the meager shelter of the rocks. But then Jim pushed his head back against Blair's shoulder. Blair stifled the exclamation of relief that sprang to his lips, and instead simply tried to pull Jim closer. _Jim,_ he thought, and could have wept, feeling the prickle of short-cropped hair on the head pressing harder against him, as if seeking shelter. Still afraid to risk speaking out loud, he gently freed one arm from Jim's desperate grasp so he could touch Jim's face.

A whimper escaped Jim at that contact, though he tried to swallow it back. Gently as he could, Blair eased Jim's head closer, until he could feel Jim's temple against his cheek. Then he finally trusted himself to speak, still without breath. Silently he told Jim they were safe and that he would take care of him. He knew Jim would feel his jaw working, his lips and mouth forming the words, and he prayed it would be enough. "I've got you, and I won't let you go," he said. "You're safe now. No matter what, I'm here, Jim, I'm right here."

More of the tension ebbed from the body Blair cradled in his arms. Shudders still coursed through Jim, but the coil of pain and terror wracking the long form loosened, as though Jim were allowing himself to hear Blair. To believe him.

Blair craned his neck cautiously to peer around the edge of the boulder. The flashlights down the beach didn't seem to be coming any closer. For the moment, at least, he and Jim were safe. Maybe Jim's pursuers had followed his footprints into the surf and assumed he had drowned. Could they really be that lucky?

_Safe._

_Lucky._

_Right, man. Tell me another one._ Blair settled his head back again, keeping Jim pulled close. Jim's shirt hung open in tatters, destroyed by the fight in the tide. In the same dim way Blair could see the pale breadth of Jim's chest, he could also see the faint shape of his feet well enough to tell Jim was barefoot too, and knew himself how miserably that would add to the chill of the night. The rain coming down was so bitterly cold, and Jim was shivering so hard. Blair kept one hand gentle on the side of Jim's face, holding Jim's temple and cheek pressed close, and with his other hand he tried to pull Jim's shirt together for whatever slim protection it might afford him from the elements. There was too much material. At first he couldn't make what he found match with what he remembered from the last time he had seen his friend. Blair's careful touch skimmed Jim's bare chest and the bunched, wet cloth hanging on both sides, and then he realized the white tee Jim had been wearing under his shirt had been torn in front from collar to hem.

Blair felt a shudder of cold that started from the inside out, cramping hard in his belly, crawling up his spine and lifting the hairs on the back of his neck. He remembered Jim's shirt tearing away in his hands out in the water, and he realized why it had pulled apart so easily. It had already been in shreds, no doubt ruined by the same hands that had gone on to ruin Jim.

Up until this moment, lost in the struggle simply to survive, Blair hadn't let himself think about what could have taken Jim's reason. He hadn't wanted to think about what could have turned the strong, confident man he knew into the terrified, broken creature that huddled against him now.

He had to think about it now.

He took a deep, shaking breath, trying to calm himself, but it was already too late. Jim had felt his fear and uncertainty instantly. An answering cry of fear spilled from Jim's lips, and he tried frantically to curl closer, pulling his knees up and twisting in Blair's arms so he could clutch at Blair's shirt.

 _Ah, Jim,_ Blair moaned to himself, though he didn't allow a sound to escape. He managed to get his arms around Jim's shoulders in that awkward position, allowing Jim to press as close as he needed. Jim's hipbone was bearing down a little too hard between Blair's legs, and the point of Jim's right elbow was forced against Blair's sternum with enough weight to make drawing a deep breath difficult. Blair shifted gingerly, but he kept Jim pulled close, never loosening his embrace until Jim's soft cries of terror finally began to die away.

Blair relaxed a little and Jim responded immediately. He stopped pressing quite so desperately, allowing Blair, after a few moments, to settle him into a more comfortable position. Still close, but with his head tucked against Blair's throat and one arm under Blair's coat and wrapped around his back. Blair felt Jim's hand tighten around a fistful of his shirt between the small of Blair's back and the rock behind them.

 _OK,_ Blair thought. _OK. So the old way isn't going to work here. No faking your way through scared out of your wits, because you're holding a human lie detector in your arms. And right now, Jim's just not in any shape to deal with your fear as well as his own. All right, fine. Fine. No problem. From here on out, there is simply no fear. Just like those fucking tee-shirts. No Fear._ Or if there was fear, at least there would be no lies.

"All right, Jim," Blair said, giving his words just a whisper of breath. If Jim were capable of understanding, he had to hear this. Jim moaned at the sound of Blair's voice, but he didn't pull away. If anything, he seemed only to tuck himself closer into the shelter of Blair's arms.

"I just want to see what we're dealing with here," Blair whispered, encouraged. "I'm not going to let anyone hurt you. I promise, Jim. I promise."

Jim sighed and turned his face against Blair's chest. His grip on the back of Blair's shirt quaked, but otherwise he was still.

Blair smoothed his hand across Jim's head, repeating his promise while he carefully worked his other hand between them, pushing aside the sodden rags to discover why Jim's shirt had been torn.

 

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Listening for the sound of that heart, and its truth. Finding his own there._

The welts crossed Jim's chest, his skin puckered and raised, blistering in places. Dotted trails like an obscene line-drawing had been sketched down his abdomen and across his sides. Blair touched the wounds with his fingertips, tracing the marks gently as he could. Jim's flesh twitched and flinched under his light touch, and Blair shuddered in sympathy, so dazed with growing horror that at last he had to still his hand and close his eyes.

Then he heard Jim's whimper, and he fought his weakness back savagely. If he wanted to help Jim he had to know the worst. He opened his eyes, shaking his head as if that could clear it. "Easy, man," he whispered to Jim. "Easy. I've got you. No one's going to hurt you anymore."

He gently ran his hand down Jim's left arm. The sleeves of Jim's shirt had been torn away high across his biceps, and threads dangled from the ragged ends. Blair found abrasions above Jim's elbow and more at his wrist, wide bands where the skin was raw. Rope burns, Blair realized a moment later, and the images punched violently through his control, all the more brutal for his attempts to escape them. How coarse the ropes must have been, to have taken the skin off like that. Jim would have been fighting so hard. And how rough the hands had been that had ripped at his clothing, tearing it, tearing at the body beneath....

Blair moaned, starting to shake from the onslaught. Jim had been on the inside for nearly two days. How quickly had his cover been blown? How long had they been at him?

Then he heard Jim's soft, frightened cry, and realized he had tightened his hold, clutching at the big man as though he could erase the past if he could only hold Jim close enough now. He tried to make himself relax, stroking Jim's head with one hand, his other arm around Jim's shoulders, murmuring reassurances the whole time.

"It's all right, Jim. It's all right, I'm here now." Though he didn't stop talking, he couldn't prevent the tears that filled his eyes and roughened his voice. His nose and mouth were still burning from the salt water, _god, and it must feel like acid to Jim_ but far worse was the sting in his eyes, the heavy pressure at the back of his throat.

He thought of Jim in the hands of those animals -- worse than animals -- all that time, and Blair hadn't even known. Hanging around out here half a mile down the beach because he couldn't stand not to be close somehow, but when it really counted, when Jim really needed him -- he had been all alone.

He wondered if Jim had tried to control the pain. Had anything Blair shown him been any help at all? Or had that simply made it worse for him? Holding back, dialing down as long as he could until finally everything broke. Jim's strength, his reason, everything washed away in a black tide of oblivion.

"Jim," Blair said, weeping openly now because there was no point in trying to hold it in. "Oh Jim, I'm sorry."

Jim moaned, answering Blair's grief. He couldn't get any closer, but the hand spread across Blair's chest moved restlessly, as though seeking something.

Blair covered the hand over his heart with his own. "Hush, Jim," he whispered, his voice broken. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here."

Jim's head shook a little. His fist clenched against Blair's chest, then his fingers spread wide again, trembling with strain.

"What is it?" Blair whispered. "What's wrong?" He could feel the tears still streaming down his own face, and he couldn't stop seeing it. Jim harried by brutes, tied down and being hurt, his beautiful strength torn slowly from him as the terrible hours stretched on.

And suddenly Blair knew, perhaps from the way Jim clung to him now, that Jim must have been calling for him toward the end.

"I'm here," Blair said again, desperately. "You found me, Jim. You made it. It's up to me now. I've got you."

Still Jim's hand clenched and shifted against Blair's chest, as though reaching for something beyond his grasp.

Finally Blair understood. Jim was trying so hard to get closer, but his senses were off the map, all control battered away from him. He was trying to touch Blair, and feeling cold, wet wool instead. Perhaps he couldn't get past the first touch to even feel the heart beating underneath.

"All right, let's try this," Blair murmured, smoothing his hand over Jim's head again, the cropped hair warm and damp where Blair's hand provided some meager shelter from the rain. He glanced up the beach again. It wasn't his imagination. The flashlights were no closer. If anything, they were moving away, fading into a dim, erratic glow. So maybe he had been right after all. They must have assumed Jim had drowned in the surf.

At any rate they were far enough away not to hear Jim if he cried out. Sick with the knowledge he was about to need that margin of safety, Blair said softly, "It's all right. Just trust me for a moment, and everything will be all right." Then he tried to ease Jim away.

Jim shuddered violently, moaning in despair.

Blair hardened his heart and pushed Jim back forcibly, just enough to be able to shrug his way out of his sodden wool jacket.

Jim didn't understand. He allowed Blair to push him back, but he cried out in his terror, voice rising, face turned blindly toward Blair's in the darkness.

Blair yanked his own wet shirt up quickly, pulling it over his head and dropping it to the side. Shivering harder already, he pulled off his tee-shirt as well, baring his chest, and then gathered Jim close again, pulling the wet jacket back up and draping it over Jim's shoulders. Jim trembled as the cold weight fell on his back, but he pressed close to Blair in relief. Head tucked down again, he spread his hand over Blair's chest and this time let it rest there above Blair's heart. His breathing slowed, began to even out. Blair helped him tuck his other arm around his back, and felt Jim's hand spread wide against the small of his back as well, trying to touch as much as he could.

Jim's skin warmed quickly against his, making the contrast with the cold, wet shreds of the shirt hanging on either side the more sharp. Blair shivered again, and felt Jim's arm around his back tighten momentarily in response.

Though the rain still drizzled down on them, he was sheltered from most of it by the bulk of the rock behind them and Jim's body in front. He shifted his hand again, gently smoothing it over the short softness of Jim's hair, feeling the slight way Jim shifted. There was an uneasiness to it, as if he still needed to be closer but couldn't, somehow. As if the pain that still had to be clawing at him was in part due to the contact.

Not with himself, Blair realized suddenly. The way Jim's injured wrist lay against his chest so easily meant it was not just the pain of his wounds that Jim felt. He reached carefully between them again, pulling the shreds of Jim's shirt away, wincing himself as he knew it had to be dragging across the welts on Jim's skin. But Jim didn't cry out, he only pressed his face against Blair's chest and endured as Blair eased the few last remnants of fabric off Jim's shoulders, and then once again pulled his own coat up to try to shield both of them from the rain.

Jim settled against him, and Blair felt the fleeting hot trace of a tear against his skin where Jim's cheek came to rest. In the darkness there was a sense of total isolation, almost dissolution. The hiss of surf and rain was louder than their breathing. The rock poked into Blair's back in a dozen places where its water-carved surface still resisted shaping, but it didn't bother him enough to be worth the effort of rescuing his discarded shirts and using them to cushion his back. He didn't feel the discomfort.

What he did feel was the smoothness of Jim's chest against his, marred by those burns, and he caught his lip between his teeth, fighting against the renewed grief. He stared deliberately down the beach, looking for the lights, trying to feel fury at them instead of at himself, but the hard knot in his chest wouldn't abate.

Every wound on Jim's body was his fault, as was every shiver that wracked the broken man lying against him. Blair had known, beyond certainty, that he would be needed, and still he hadn't been there, not when it would have made a difference. His chest heaved in a sob and he laid his cheek against Jim's head, giving in. "Oh, Jim, I am so sorry, please, please, I'm sorry...." Then his throat closed too far for words, and he shook as he held Jim fiercely close, his fingers combing through the short hair under his hand over and over.

Jim shifted, his hands sliding across Blair's skin as he wrapped both arms around him, fingers still splayed to give the widest contact area. There was an unconscious absolution in the way he held Blair closer then, still so deeply lost his own pain, but reaching out. His voice hoarse, he murmured, "Blair? No."

The sound shocked Blair, reaching past his grief even as the rasp in it told him he had been right, that Jim had screamed, had called for him, and had not been answered until it was far too late. His hand rested on Jim's head as he fought for control, and he tried to concentrate on the cold wool beneath his arm instead of the abrasions on Jim's arms. He could feel the rough heat of Jim's wounds as Jim held him, and still Blair tried to tell himself there was hope, that they were making progress. Jim was coming back to him. Jim trusted him.

That was a mistake. Knowledge of his failure shot through him like a blade, and he tensed with it. The answering moan from Jim was instantaneous. Blair screamed inside at his carelessness, and he whispered quickly, infinitely careful to keep his voice as low as possible. "Shhh, Jim. It's OK now."

And knew with despair that he hadn't believed it enough, when Jim's arms tightened around him and that crushed-velvet voice softly cried, "No...."

"It will be OK," Blair whispered gently. That was true, he knew it. They hadn't died in the surf. The only alternative to everything being OK was to have given up then. "I will make it OK." That was true too. Whatever it took, he knew he could do it. If it took his last breath, he would give it for Jim. "I've got you now. We can do this. You can come back." Basic truths, every one of them. "I need you to come back, Jim. I need you with me." The truths of his life and heart.

Jim's indrawn breath was deeper, as if he were awakening, and his head tilted against Blair's chest, listening to something there, his forehead tucked into the curve of Blair's neck.

Listening for the sound of that heart, and its truth. Finding his own there.

 

 

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	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Though he had nothing to give, not even his own self left to offer, he tried_

The pain that defined Jim's world grew a hole, and he pressed himself against the tiny flaw by instinct. All he did was instinct and autonomic function; he had no thought left save for the knowledge that life meant agony.

There were sounds coming through the cacophony battering at him, sounds that didn't hurt so much. They might have had meaning, but he couldn't understand it. All that was important was the small place that didn't hurt so much, and the fact he could pull it closer to himself.

Then he was forced away from that respite, and the loss of it was more than he could bear. Lacking the strength to fight, or even protest, he accepted the loss without struggle. His struggle was done, that was the other thing he found he knew.

Touch moved along his skin, that shell housing him like an iron maiden, and it skimmed the places where his anguish had started. The fire in those contacts was like the acid burning of the air that moved through his throat and the scourge of the sand and cold. But he didn't fight. He couldn't fight any longer. The soft voice drew the last desire for it from him, making the pain only another part of himself, not an invader. He might have cried out. That was beyond his control, had been for some time, if time had meaning.

The touch ceased playing across his wounds, and they ached the more for it. There was pressure across his back, holding him tighter, a prisoner of his rescue. Fear stabbed through him, and was answered by a gentler hold, the sounds that didn't hurt returning to soothe him.

Then the sounds changed, and they carried pain too. A different pain than the universe of it he had known for so long; one that cut deep within, in the places where he had hoarded his last strength and hope. The places that had been broken open at the end, when his reason had been torn from him. It had not occurred to him that he could hurt worse than he did already.

The tiny hole in the pain began to close, its beacon of respite escaping him by slow degrees. He clutched at it vainly, begging it to open to him even though he had nothing to offer in return.

It pushed him away instead, out into the screaming maelstrom that had claimed him before. He had tried so hard to escape it, and now it reached eagerly for him again, endlessly patient, merciless. He cried out, accepting the suffering his voice took as its due for use, but the force holding him away from comfort was implacable. For an eternity he sank into the pain as it claimed him once more, biting at every cell of his body, pulling the little of him that was left into the smallest component parts.

And then he was allowed back to the place of peace. Now warmth was under his touch where there had been a chill blankness before, and he found a smooth softness vibrating with the sounds that brought control back to him. A cold, heavy weight settled across his back, but it meant nothing now, when he could lay his aching head against the promise of release.

Holding to that promise, he rested, and when he was given more contact he accepted it. The lack of pain across the connection now was as intense as the agony had been, overwhelming him, until all he could do was lose himself in it. He needed more, and more was given, a fleeting ache of dragging cloth over his skin giving way to the warmth and soft life that welcomed his shattered soul.

Bits and pieces, drawn together by the sound of the heart that beat under his hand, the breath that moved under his ear, the gentle touch that stroked over his head keeping the cold rain at bay. They all defined something that was part of him.

The shivers that wracked his body were outside his awareness. Through the flat of his hand, the plane of his chest, the side of his cheek, he drew in the feel and essence of the one source of hope in his life.

Bits of memory strobed through him, a kaleidoscope of images. Colored with the warm yellows and oranges of sunlight streaming through high windows, they were distant but clear pictures of laughter and happiness, all centered around the beat of life under his hand. The pictures began to coalesce, giving him an identity, a center to tie himself to. Then the breath that moved under his cheek caught, dragging in a sob, and the weight of pain descended on him from within even as it rested against his temple. He heard his name, and the sorrow in the voice hurt, dredging back his own feeling of being lost. Though he had nothing to give, not even his own self left to offer, he tried.

Moving slowly, because he hadn't the ability to force his body to do otherwise, Jim slid his hand across Blair's chest, around his side, to his back. The cool, wet surface of his skin was dimpled with goosebumps in the chilly night air, but immediately beneath it was the warmth of his life. It was instinct more than anything else that formed the embrace, that drew Blair's name from him as he tried with the last shreds of his will to do what his heart told him was necessary. To make Blair's pain go away.

The voice that had soothed him spoke again, and this time the meaning of the words was clear to him, not washed out by an infinity of pain from every nerve ending. The voice brought reassurance, and the body in his arms told him it was a lie. The pain would have been easier to take, but with nothing else to hang onto, he held the lie closer to himself and cried against it. Until the voice spoke again, he had no hope, only the contact that brought him some measure of relief, that quieted the screaming agony his world had become. But hope came with the next words, soft reassurances that weren't lies, that resonated true within his mind and in the body he held. They called him back, closer to reason, giving him a need to return, to find the energy to fight again.

Cradling warmth, hope, healing in his arms, he listened to the truth within it, and began to find himself. And when he did, when he remembered who he was and what had been done to him, and knew again why he was there, he found there was indeed a more unbearable agony than the torture that had taken him, and still lingered. He knew he had been broken, utterly destroyed. It was then that Jim began to cry.

He wept with the pain that still tormented his body, with the shame that twisted his heart, knowing he had been completely and utterly broken, helpless until found by his friend. Helpless still, if Blair should leave him.

There had been a sort of innocence to never having been so ruined, an innocence he hadn't known he had until it was taken from him, and its loss hurt more than he had ever suspected it could. Now there was nothing left of him, nothing of what he was or had ever wanted to be. Only an empty wreck, lying on the beach like the rotting driftwood from a distant shore. Eaten away from without and within, until all that was left was the pain and the need to stop it.

Knowing what he was doing, afraid of how much he needed it and utterly unable to stop himself, he pulled himself closer against Blair.

Even as he still wept, face pressed against Blair's neck, the line of Blair's collarbone arcing across his jaw, he sought to bring more of himself into that contact. The desperate need for it shamed him further, but he had no pride left to lose. He had nothing at all, nothing but Blair's protection, and he clung to it with his pathetically diminished strength, though his sobs shook him and Blair both with their force.

Everything hurt more than he had ever suspected it could. In his life Jim had been hurt many times, but never so badly, not like this, not so that his mind retreated from the agony and left him a shell without any will other than to find respite from the anguish.

The warmth of Blair's skin against his was more than a heat source, more than the comfort of being held by a compassionate friend. It was a conduit for peace, the sort of peace he had always felt in Blair's presence, now magnified a million times into a refuge. He had no desire left but to surround himself with that refuge, to let it protect him as Blair's hand sheltered his head from the rain, stroking gently, trembling with cold himself.

Peace spread out from the contact, slowly. He felt the damp weight of the coat around his shoulders, the thin band of heat where Blair's arm held it around him. The sharp burning of the torn skin on his wrists where the hemp had dug in, and the grit of salt and sand on his chest, separating him in microscopic intervals from Blair. Gasping, Jim drew back to let the cold rainwater sluice down his chest for a moment, face turned toward the sky, before folding back around Blair, the tiniest bit closer for having let some of the interfering particles be washed away. His own tears were so hot against his skin he could feel them distinct from the cold raindrops. He felt the others too, the ones Blair shed silently, trailing down from where Blair's cheek pressed against his forehead.

When the shame threatened to overcome him, when he felt every bit of his helplessness borne in like the tide that hissed and roared in his ears, when he shook with loathing for what he had become, what he had been made into for his friend to see, it was then he heard Blair's words, and felt the touch of Blair's lips against his temple.

Blair's words had been washing over him like the rain for a while, only another piece of confusing sensory input in a world barely comprehensible as yet. Through his agony, another piece of the universe was reaching inward to him, borne on Blair's soft, breaking voice. Jim felt the brush of Blair's lips forming the words against his forehead, the vibration in Blair's chest as he spoke, the fleeting warmth of breath across his skin with each word.

"Shhh, Jim, it'll be OK now, I've got you. I'm not leaving, I won't let go. You've got me now, shhhhh, just hang on, hold on to me as tight as you need, shhhh...." His voice faltered, rough with tears, breaking repeatedly until he couldn't go on.

There was the brief press of Blair's lips against his temple as his voice stumbled to a halt and fell silent for a moment. The unthinking tenderness of the fleeting kiss started a soft inner warmth glowing where Jim had known only emptiness and fear.

As if he'd drawn strength from the touch, Blair began the litany of reassurance again. This time, Jim heard more of the words, felt more of the need in them, and yet the gulf between how he knew Blair felt about him and how he felt about himself was so wide he could not make the leap. Bridging the gap looked impossible to him, because he knew how little of himself remained.

None of his strength or courage or determination had survived the trial by pain. There was nothing left of the man Blair loved, nothing but the husk that needed him, and called his name in the darkness of its loneliness. Jim laid his cheek against the flat plane of Blair's breast and hated himself for pretending to be someone he used to be, and could never become again.

 

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	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He hadn't known anything could be worse than Jim's madness_

"Come back, Jim, you know me, you can trust me. I won't hurt you, I could never hurt you, I only want to help you. I'll do anything, Jim, you know that, ask me for anything and it's yours, anything. Shhhh.... Please don't hurt any more, Jim. I need you to be OK, I need you to come back to me." His voice was deep but it shook, and the fingers combing down the back of Jim's neck trembled with exhaustion and a full heart's share of the hurt Jim had suffered. On and on, the same words over and over again, but he had no idea if Jim could understand them and, after an endless while, Blair let his voice trail off, wondering if it were even worth the effort. Maybe silence was better for Jim. Perhaps more sensory input of any kind was the last thing Jim needed.

But almost at once, Jim's sobs began to rise. He turned his head up blindly, seeking. His hands spread wide against Blair's back, then clenched into fists. _OK,_ Blair thought, horrified. So shutting up had been a really bad idea. "Shhh, Jim," he murmured softly, hopelessly, but talking all the same. "Shhh, I'm so sorry. I'm right here. Not going anywhere, you know that. I'm right here with you. I've got you, and I'm not going to let you go." He shifted against the rock, sitting up a little and trying to make Jim more comfortable, but the movement frightened Jim too. He clutched frantically at Blair, pressing his head up, bearing hard against Blair's chest and throat. Crying still.

Blair moved one hand from Jim's back so he could hold his head. "Easy," he said, amazed that his voice sounded so calm when inside he was screaming raw cries of pure anguish. "Easy. I'm right here." He swallowed and went on since Jim needed his voice so badly, choosing his words with care, pausing to compose himself as much as he could while Jim wept, broken and lost in his arms. "Easy, Jim. I'm not going anywhere. In fact, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about," Blair said. He swallowed again, shivering. God, it was cold out here. Where the hell were the Feds? Where the hell was Simon? _and how in the name of everything holy could this have happened to Jim?_

There was nothing holy in the world anymore. He knew that now. Despair swept over him, blacker and colder than the tide that had nearly drowned them both.

_NO!_

He shook his head and took a gasping breath of air. "Jim, " he said frantically, anything to keep talking now, "About the grocery shopping next quarter. There's something I've got to talk to you about." He broke off with a laugh that was way too close to being the first few sobs in an endless series. _Oh come **on** , Sandburg, get a grip. For Jim's sake. For Jim if you can't do it on your own. _

_OK. A little better now._

"Now I know how much you hate going on Saturday morning, and I know I said I was going to be able to work my schedule so I'd be off on Wednesdays and we could go then." He stopped again, but only for a moment, wiping his eyes clumsily with the sleeve of the coat draped over Jim's shoulders. It was wetter than his eyes had been, and added more salt, stinging rather than helping. "But see --" he was losing his voice again, shattered against the rocky face of Jim's anguish. "But see, Jim --" There, he could manage better at a whisper. "There was a scheduling change. Professor Goss's seminar is going to be Wednesday mornings now. So, maybe just for one quarter we could do the shopping thing on Saturday? Ten weeks. Ten Saturdays. That's all it would be."

It was a little easier to talk, once he got into the swing of it. "Maybe we could even trade off Saturdays, so you wouldn't have to lose your weekend like that every week. No reason we both have to go to the grocery story, really." _Except that I'm never letting you out of my sight again, Jim._ His arms tightened enough to elicit a startled sound from Jim. The sobs didn't stop, but they were quieting a bit. Jim was resting easier against him. Just a little bit, surely. Blair wasn't imagining it. Jim was getting calmer.

_Or he's simply too exhausted to keep going any longer,_ Blair thought an instant later, despair crueler than ever after a fleeting instant of hope. "OK," Blair tried again, "So forget alternate Saturdays. We do it together or not at all."

There was no way Jim could have understood that. Not the way Blair was gasping out the words, his fleeting control slipping away as quickly as it had come to him and, along with it, his ability to pretend there was still a future to look forward to. Any place and time anywhere in the distance that it would matter in the least when he did the grocery shopping.

It was so cold the rock at his back felt like a damn glacier, but there was at least some warmth hoarded between them. Jim's chest and side pressed against his own, Jim's arms wrapped around his back, Jim's hands spread across his back holding on to him, fingers spread wide and trembling on his skin . Blair shifted again, but he was more careful this time, pulling Jim to him as he did, holding him carefully, but with all the strength in his own arms. It wasn't a whole lot by this point.

"So OK, Jim, maybe I'll start coming to the gym once or twice a week with you. I always thought I could keep up, but I've got to tell you, tonight's really taken it out of me." He tried to laugh. All he could really dredge up was a smile, and he had a good idea it was a pretty piss poor one at that. Jim couldn't even see it, with his head down and pressed to Blair's chest. Blair kept smiling anyway, all he could manage, and moved his head, resting his cheek and chin against Jim's temple so that Jim could feel the muscles in his cheek. Rain caught in his hair and drizzled down his face, rivulets so cold he couldn't feel his skin where he wasn't touching Jim, most of his body slowly going numb under the weather's touch.

"But you gotta promise not to laugh, man. I don't have any idea how to use all that fancy equipment -- and free weights, I don't know. Doesn't seem my thing, somehow. Now if they had a yoga class," Blair whispered. "Ever thought about yoga? It's cool. I think you'd like it."

Blair was letting one hand rest on the back of Jim's neck, just below the hairline, his other arm across the broad, smooth curve of Jim's strong back. His hand was at the small of Jim's back, and he could feel muscles twitch and jump under his fingers, everything out of control. Otherwise Jim was still. He was quiet as well, but he wasn't calm, even though he lay against Blair and let Blair rattle on about nonsense. It was the unnatural peace of exhaustion, and perhaps of something worse. Jim was here now, Blair knew that. Half an hour before, out there in the water, Jim had been wholly lost to him, trapped in a private hell. At the time, he hadn't thought anything could be worse than Jim's madness. But as Jim lay huddled in his arms, silent and so still, Blair began to wonder if perhaps there was something more frightening even than oblivion.

Blair kept talking though he had no real idea what he was saying anymore. Talking about trying to find a yoga class they could go to together. _Right. Like that's really going to happen._ But it was something to keep his voice going while his mind worked frantically.

_Take it easy, Sandburg. Jim nearly died tonight. Perhaps a part of him really has died. So he's not just gonna bounce back, no matter how much you want him to. Just keep him safe as you can until Simon gets here. That's all you can do. Try to make sure the two of you don't die of hypothermia in the meantime._

Except, it wasn't enough. Simon might not get there until morning. The men who had done this to Jim might come back. And if they did, Blair would have no way to defend him. He would give his life for Jim, easy, but it wouldn't do any good. It wouldn't delay the inevitable for one single moment. Blair would die beside him because he wouldn't stop short of his own death to protect Jim and couldn't bear to go on alone, but that wouldn't help Jim in the least.

Somewhere along the way he had stopped talking about yoga classes. He heard his own voice with some surprise when he realized what he was saying to Jim. "You can tell me, man, if you think I'm being selfish here, but it's the truth. I can't help it. Things are pretty bad. I should have been able to do more, but I couldn't. Too late, now. Anyway, the bottom line is, it may not matter anymore that I gotta do the grocery shopping on Saturday next quarter. I got kind of a bad feeling that tonight might be it. And if..." Blair's throat closed for a moment. He gasped, just so he could keep breathing, keep talking. "And if it is, Jim -- Jim, I can't stand to let you go on like this. I can't stand it. There's something broken, I know. And it's too soon to ask you to put it back right. I'm not asking you to, not totally. But I need you. I need **you** , Jim. I'm sorry. I can't just let you go."

Easily, carefully, so as not to frighten him, Blair pulled back the hand that had been cradling Jim's head. Which pocket was the swiss army knife in? He couldn't remember. He felt in his left hip pocket. Geez, his butt was numb. Nothing. He hoped he hadn't lost it in the surf. Maybe he could use a bit of broken shell or something, but it would be messy and hurt worse too. Last thing either one of them needed tonight. More pain.

Hopefully it was in his other pocket. Gently, slowly, he put his left arm back around Jim, and felt in his right hip pocket with his right hand. Jim stirred uneasily against him. _There, got it._ "OK, Jim," Blair said calmly. "We're gonna shift a little here. It's OK. I'm right here. I've got you. Just going to change positions. It'll be easier like this." He sat up, his arms still around Jim. The knife was hidden in the closed fist resting against Jim's back.

Jim whimpered in fright as Blair tried to shift him sideways. "Hey, hey, it's OK." Blair carefully drew his arm from around Jim's shoulders and stroked his face tenderly, palm cupping the jawline, feeling the quiver there as Jim fought to quiet himself. "I'm here, I'm right here. Not going anywhere, Jim, promise. Just want to change positions here. It's your turn to sit propped against this stupid rock, man. All right? That's all." He drew Jim's head close so he could lay his cheek against Jim's for a moment. His face was warm where it had been pressed to Blair's chest.

Changing places was awkward and slow, but Jim didn't resist being moved, and Blair was as gentle as he could be. He pushed at Jim's shoulders and shifted him around. When Jim was sitting propped against the cold rock, Blair got up on his knees and knelt over Jim's outstretched legs, keeping his weight off Jim's thighs. With his left hand, the one that wasn't holding the knife, he held the back of Jim's head, touching his forehead to Jim's. "There's going to be some blood, now. I know you hate the smell, but I don't want you to be frightened. OK? You still with me?" The rain pelted Blair's back, stinging the bare skin, surprising him with its vehemence.

Blair sat back on his heels and tried to see Jim's face, but the darkness stole all the subtlety from his countenance. It was impossible to see the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth; nothing was visible to Blair but those noble planes, and the shadowed eyes. "There's nothing to be frightened of," Blair said again as he opened the knife.

Jim heard the sound, Blair could tell from the way his head cocked just a little. "Easy, now," Blair said. Way down inside, he wondered if he was as far gone by this point as Jim was. He wished he could just shut his eyes, but with his luck, and badly as his hands were shaking, he'd probably miss. "Easy," he said again. "Don't freak, man."

 

* * *

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This time, Blair stayed down_

In a deliberate movement that was a little slow because it was so cold and dark and his hands were about half-numb, Blair cut his own left index finger.

Jim cried out. Blair thought he probably yelped a little too. "It's OK!" he told Jim urgently, fumbling the knife back into his pocket and putting his right hand on Jim's shoulder. "It's OK, now. Just listen to me. I know it's scary, Jim. I know it. And I'm scared too. But you have to trust me. Please. I don't know what else to do any more."

He took his hand away. Jim was making little sounds in the back of his throat, and Blair could see the whites of his eyes, wide with terror.

_What the **hell** are you doing, man?_ Blair thought for a furious instant. _This is no time to throw away the sane and the rational. Don't you know it's all you have left?_ But that was it. There wasn't anything rational left any more. All he had left were the irrational promptings of his own heart.

His cut finger was beginning to throb. He knelt up over Jim, trying to shield him from the rain as best he could, and drew a line down the side of Jim's face in blood. At least, he hoped that was what he was doing. He couldn't see the line in the darkness, and the rain was certainly washing it away as soon as he drew it.

Jim went still and silent again under his touch. Blair started to talk. "Did I ever tell you about the time I spent with the Caduveo people, Jim? This tribe in Sao Mateo? Yeah, I know, I know. I talk about so many damn tribes I don't know how I expect you to keep 'em straight." He drew a second line, curving at the point of Jim's jaw, then up again. Jim shuddered beneath him, but didn't try to push him away. "I know you're gonna laugh at this, but there's this ritual the old women of the tribe would perform when a girl reached puberty."

He stopped to squeeze hard on his bleeding finger, making sure there was enough blood, and ran his finger across the bridge of Jim's nose. "You'd think it would be a kind of rite of passage, but it wasn't, not really. What it was, man, what I think, anyway, is a way of sharing strength. You gotta understand, Jim, the Caduveo, they're not some lost aboriginal people. They've been living on reservations since the nineteenth century. Almost everything they ever had has been ripped away from them. These are a people who were utterly devastated. Almost nothing left of them at all. Totally broken and lost. But this survived."

Blair drew a looping coil on Jim's left cheek. Jim's eyes were still staring, wide with shock. "Like you're gonna survive," Blair said softly. Another line, this one from Jim's forehead, down his nose, over his lips, his chin, his throat. "I guess this is crazy, isn't it? But you're the one, Jim. You're the one who sees visions. You're the one who can touch the other side." Blair smiled through his tears. "You're the shaman, Jim. All I can do is try to guide you through that too, and try not to make too big a mess of it along the way. So help me out here, OK?" He laid his trembling hand on Jim's lips. "My blood, Jim. My strength."

Jim opened his mouth and tasted the wound. The tip of his tongue was warm and soft on Blair's cut finger.

Blair felt the cold anew. Bared to the rain and the wind, his back and shoulders shrank as though from a blow. The few moments of clarity he had found were receding fast. His tongue was thick in his mouth. He didn't know how he would be able to say the rest, and hoped Jim would understand anyway. Belatedly, he realized he shouldn't have put the knife away. Took so much time and effort to pull it out again, and the whole time, Jim was watching him with such care. Blair could feel the gaze that he could hardly see.

When he had the knife again, he took Jim's hand. "Your strength, Jim. I need your strength too."

Jim closed his eyes and spoke to him. "No."

"Yes!" Blair insisted furiously. Understanding bloomed, dark and warm in his mind. "Jim, it doesn't matter what they did to you. You're still Jim Ellison. And I need you so bad, man. I need your strength. I need everything you are, or we're not gonna make it here." He took Jim's hand gently in his own and turned it palm up. "I'm about to hurt you, Jim. Don't make it be for no reason. Please. Please come back to me. I've given you everything I am. I need everything back from you now." Blair closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and tried again to see Jim's face.

Then Blair cut him, and Jim screamed.

"Jim!" Blair shouted back, trying to hold him, but he wasn't strong enough. "Jim, I'm sorry!" Jim convulsed beneath him, wrenching his hand free. The knife went clattering away into the rocks. Blair tried to get his arms around him and reestablish the contact, but the damage was too great, the shock too devastating. Jim arched up and knocked him away. Blair went sprawling. The wet sand burned his skin as he skidded across it. He rolled and got up, trying to crawl back. Jim was pressed desperately against the rocks, making a terrible kind of sound. Sobbing, crying out loud. The betrayal in his voice cut much deeper than the knife.

How could he have been so stupid? What the hell had he been thinking? "Jim," he moaned, stretching out his hand to him. "It's me. Please."

He touched Jim's arm, and Jim exploded again, coming up into a half-crouch and fighting hard. His open fist hit Blair's face, and Blair heard the dull sound an instant before he felt the pain. He tried to hold Jim's arm, but Jim cuffed him away, a violent blow to the side of his head that sent Blair sprawling again.

This time, Blair stayed down. Jim was close. Blair could hear him sobbing, but he lay where he was, on his back in the wet sand, looking at the sky he couldn't see. The rain was still falling. It stung a little. His jaw hurt where Jim had smacked him, and his finger still throbbed. He thought how this must feel to Jim. Beaten, broken, lost. And the only thing left to him in the world had turned on him and hurt him again.

What an interesting failure this was. Instructive in a way. Who would have thought Blair Sandburg was capable of making such a bad call? Everything else always seemed to work. Just tell Jim to do something and he did it. No matter what the problem. No matter how crazy or desperate. Jim did what Blair told him to do, and it always worked.

The rain beat down on Blair's upturned face while he wept.

He couldn't go to Jim. Couldn't risk even touching him again. He didn't speak either. Not yet. He'd wait a little while longer. Jim was exhausted. Wait a bit, and Jim wouldn't have the strength to push him away again. Blair couldn't undo the damage he'd done, but he couldn't let Jim be alone.

He'd lie there and wait for Jim to wear himself out, and he wouldn't let himself think about what he had done. They had to survive the night first. Save the regrets for later. For when Jim's safe. Blair told himself that was what he was doing, anyway. Lying there calmly in the sand, saving his strength.

He kept his teeth clenched to lock the sounds of grief inside. But he was tired, and when he relaxed for a moment, they escaped in a wail. He clamped his hands over his mouth to hold them in.

Jim stirred beside him, moving a little. Blair could hardly stand to look at him, to see what his own clumsiness and hubris had done. But he turned his head anyway.

Jim was sprawled forward, but his elbows were under him, one knee drawn up, as though he were trying to move.

"Jim," Blair whispered. He rolled to the side and began to sit up. "Jim, man, lie still."

Jim reached for Blair, and, finding him, moved with more certainty. He pulled himself nearer, his groans constant and low, regular as breaths. One of his hands spread against Blair's shoulder. He pushed, weak but absolutely insistent, and Blair allowed Jim push him down again.

A long sigh escaped Jim that was different from the moans of pain. His head dropped and lay heavily upon Blair's chest. After a moment, Blair touched Jim's shoulder, stroking gently. Jim said something and raised his head.

"Hush," Blair said, "Easy --" then broke off as Jim lifted himself above him, until he was almost crouching over Blair in the sand. Blair could see nothing of his face now, just the black silhouette against a sky almost as dark. Then Jim's hand came down and touched Blair's face.

At first, Blair didn't understand. After everything, he came so close to missing it.

Blair had been clumsy with darkness and cold. Jim was far worse off. Even so, there was a delicacy in his touch that made Blair want to weep again when he thought of the animals who could have hurt such a gentle man. Jim's fingers trailed across Blair's cheek, touched his closed eyelids, and swept his brow. Down again, a little awkward, his whole palm resting on Blair's face. Jim stroked his chin, his throat. Even Blair could smell the copper tang from Jim's bleeding fingertip.

He laid his hand on Blair's mouth. Blair's lips parted. He tasted blood, and fear, and agony, and shame.

And courage.

And such strength.

Blair shuddered, wide-eyed, knowing now what Jim had experienced. There was the sense of a circuit closing, something being made whole all around him, power surging unseen and barely leashed between them, frightening in its primal strength. Jim made soothing sounds deep in his throat as Blair began to tremble violently. His hand moved from Blair's mouth. He held Blair's head with both hands and murmured comfort. Wordless and shattered, he still permitted Blair everything. Surrendered everything. And held Blair while Blair tried to encompass the enormity of it.

It seemed to Blair that the moment lasted forever, though it could only have been seconds. Jim was too weak to hold himself up any longer than that. He collapsed over him, and Blair didn't have the strength to try to move him.

He lay there, Jim sprawled over him, and knew it was wrong, that he should be the one trying to shield Jim.

_Jim,_ he thought. _Jim, we've got to get up. Find my coat. Figure out some way to get you warm and dry._ But he didn't move, and he didn't speak. He just lay there with his eyes open to the rain that was washing Jim's blood from his face and mouth. He was still trembling, deep shudders that worked their way from the inside out, closing his throat, stealing the strength from his arms and legs. He closed his eyes. _Just for a moment,_ he told himself. Just to gather his wits. Jim had given him everything. Now he realized he had no idea if he were worth such a sacrifice.

Blair's head turned to the side, away from Jim's, and he saw a figure standing there on the beach, not five feet away.

 

* * *

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All that strength and beauty held in abeyance, in sacrifice_

Dark night. No moon, no stars. Nothing but the endless cold rain from an invisible sky, but it didn't matter. Blair could see the man on the beach clearly, and he wasn't afraid. How could he be? It was so good to see Jim. Even like this. Even though Blair suddenly understood he had flung wide a door that might never be shut again.

Jim was naked, his head up and his shoulders back, standing calmly, but with such strength apparent even in his repose. Blair could see the thin red lines of blood scrolling across his face, down his throat, across his chest, over his belly and down his legs in loops and arabesques. He was gazing down at Blair where he lay in the sand, and after a moment a gentle smile crossed Jim's face. The finely drawn symbols flowed and shifted over his features. Blair stretched out his hand, straining desperately to reach him. The smile on Jim's face changed. There was a hint of sadness in it, and at length he began to turn away.

_Jim!_ Blair screamed without moving his lips. _You can't leave us! Jim, please._

Rain was still pouring down from the dark sky, but Blair could see the scrolled lines of blood curving over Jim's shoulder as he turned. The lines swept his ribs and across the back of his hip and thigh, gleaming red against Jim's pale flesh. They were broken in only one place. A wide, clean swath stretched jaggedly across his back. Jim was truly naked there, utterly defenseless and bare.

Blair kept reaching for him, but it was a distance he could not possibly cross. He could only watch as Jim bowed his head and knelt slowly in the sand.

With a gasp, Blair suddenly opened his eyes. "Jim." He turned his head and spoke out loud to the man whose body pinned him to the sand and sheltered him from the pouring rain. "Jim, we've got to go."

Jim's head nodded once, where it still rested against Blair's shoulder. His hands came up and he tried to lift himself. "Easy, man," Blair said. He felt so calm, so distant. Jim seemed to understand. He stopped trying to push himself away, resting with half his weight propped on his elbows, head bowed over Blair. His sides were heaving from the effort of moving only that far, the swell of his ribcage pressing on Blair's chest with each labored breath. He touched Blair's face with both hands, and Blair felt sand and blood as Jim's fingers spread across his cheeks and brow.

Not knowing what else to say, he offered, "I left the car on the road. It's less than half a mile away. Do you think you can make it that far?"

Jim lowered his head until his forehead touched Blair's. "Chief," he said, his voice hoarse and low, coming such a long distance and from such a dark place. "Blair, I can **see** you."

Blair heard his pulse roaring in his ears. He could still see Jim too, kneeling in the sand a short distance away. All that strength and beauty held in abeyance, in sacrifice. He could not imagine what Jim might be seeing. He was a little afraid to know. _Ah, god help us both. It doesn't matter._ They had to get out of the rain. "Here, Jim, like this. I can't move. You're gonna have to shift a little. Can you roll to one side?"

Jim moved, taking the last of his weight off Blair, and the cold of the night washed over Blair anew as the warmth of Jim's body was lifted away. Missing that contact more than he had thought possible, Blair began to shiver uncontrollably as he got to his knees. Jim lay quietly beside him, waiting for Blair to guide him.

"Hold on. Just a sec." Blair felt his way to the rocks, looking for his coat and the discarded pile of his shirts. When he had found the little pile of soaked material, he hefted the shirts, thinking briefly of what struggling into the icy, sand-filled material would feel like, and left them behind. It wasn't like they would make him any less cold and wet, after all. Dragging the coat, he crawled back to Jim and touched his shoulder. "OK. Can you sit up, do you think?"

Jim's trembling hand reached up and clutched at Blair's. Despite the darkness, Blair could see Jim wasn't looking at him. His eyes were fixed on an empty place somewhere beyond Blair's left shoulder. Blair didn't turn his head to see. "Jim?" Jim tried to say something, but Blair couldn't make out the words. He bent his head closer, but only so he could tell Jim, "Now, please, man. We've got to go now." Jim's grip on his hand tightened until it was close to pain. "Jim --" Blair said again.

In response, Jim pulled Blair's hand up and pressed a fervent kiss to the inside of his wrist. "I know," Blair whispered, his face so close to Jim's, his heart running ragged in its beating. "I know." He put his arm around Jim's shoulders, and tried more insistently to ease him up. "We're gonna get up and take it one step at a time, OK?"

Jim seemed to nod a little. At any rate, he released Blair's hand and took his upper arm instead, trying to help. "That's right," Blair murmured in encouragement. Jim took a gasping breath of air and allowed Blair to pull him up, his hand locked tight around Blair's arm. Blair could feel Jim's broad shoulders trembling with the strain. When he was sitting up as best he could, his knees drawn up, his head down, panting with the effort, Blair shifted until he was crouching in front of him. "All right, man, it's all or nothing here. You with me?"

Again Jim nodded. Blair got his feet up under himself and wrapped his arm around Jim's ribs, tight under his arms. "On the count of three, ok? One, two --" He began standing up, knowing if Jim didn't help, there was no way he could manage it on his own. But Jim tried. With a sudden, speechless exclamation he pushed upward so violently that he and Blair both nearly ended up on the ground again. But after an instant of surprise, Blair managed to brace them both, and they swayed together, standing upright. "Wow," Blair whispered. "Fantastic! I knew you could do it, Jim. I knew it! Now we're just gonna walk back to the car. Nice little midnight stroll on the beach. Here we go. One step at a time."

Well, it wasn't exactly midnight anymore. Now that they were standing, Blair could see the glow in the east, the pale line of dawn under the lowering clouds despite the rain still beating down on their bare heads.

Blair pulled Jim closer, wrapping his arm around Jim's waist, bracing him as well as he could. Jim moaned and stumbled forward at Blair's urging. One step. Another. Blair had decided their best bet was to go up the beach, away from the water, rather than trying to climb over the tumbled rock breakwater. A third step. Their bare feet broke through the top layers of crusty, wet sand and sank deep. Blair was briefly glad they had lost their shoes. Trying to walk dragging the weight of them filled with sand would have been a shackle he knew neither of them could have overcome. A fourth step. _Doing great. Just half a mile to go._

He realized at some point he was still holding his soggy jacket, clutching it against his chest with the arm that wasn't wrapped around Jim's waist. He wondered if there were any way he could get Jim to wear it. Two more labored steps, Jim breathing hard beside him. _Nah, not likely._ The coat was pretty oversized, but not that big. With that realization, he dropped it.

Maybe a dozen steps now. Jim was going slower and slower, and Blair was feeling winded too from the horror of this night and the effort of supporting so much of Jim's weight, their feet dragging clumsily through the sand. "OK. Just a little break here," he said at last, panting. He couldn't let Jim sit down because he was afraid he'd never get the two of them standing again, but he moved around in front of Jim and held Jim for a few moments, both arms around him, leaning against him a little, allowing Jim to lean against him in turn. Jim's arms were wrapped loosely around Blair's back, his head resting against Blair's. Blair realized his own eyes were closed, and he opened them, looking over Jim's shoulder. He could still see the other on the beach behind them, and though the encroachment of dawn sharpened everything else, Jim was becoming less distinct. He was still kneeling on the beach, faced away from them, still waiting.

Blair took a deep breath and turned away as well, moving until he was at Jim's side again. His cut finger throbbed, and it seemed he could still taste Jim's blood on his lips, though he didn't see how that could be. Surely the rain had washed it all away by now. On an impulse, he took Jim's hand, knowing he had to be hurting as well, hurting in ways Blair could hardly comprehend, and held it to his own chest for a moment.

Jim's eyes opened. He looked down at Blair, puzzled.

"Doing great," Blair said. "Just got to keep going now."

Jim simply kept looking at him with an expression on his face that made Blair go cold inside. _No,_ he thought. No, he had to be imagining things now. There wasn't enough light for him to see Jim's face clearly, so he **had** to be imagining it, projecting his own sense of failure onto Jim. But he couldn't help it. For an instant there, Jim looked so - disappointed.

No. No, that couldn't be right, no matter how much reason Jim might have to be. Surely he knew that Blair was doing the best he could, and Jim had never asked for more than that. But all Blair had to do was turn his head to see the other one on the beach, the one who had turned away from Blair, whose smile was so sad, and Blair felt a sudden hot, sick flush mounting in his cheeks despite the cold and the rain. What had he released? What had he shown Jim?

Blair shook his head fiercely, refusing to let any of it claim him. All that mattered was Jim was moving again. So slow, but utterly determined. Blair had asked it of him, and Jim was doing his best to comply. Blair put everything else aside and concentrated on helping him. Step by step. So slow, so difficult. Jim was making little sounds, groaning with concentration, staying upright through sheer will. _See, man?_ Blair wanted to tell him. _See? You survived. You're so strong. Oh, Jim, can't you tell? You're indomitable. Nothing's changed. Not the important things._ But neither one of them could spare the strength for speech, even reassurances.

It was harder going through the last stretch of sand. They were almost to the rocks when Blair had another thought. _If the men who did this to Jim were planning an ambush, this is where they'd be waiting._

Blair glanced sideways up at Jim's set face, considering. Another step. Another step. Could he ask Jim to check it out for them? His senses had nearly destroyed him. He suspected the only way Jim had managed to get this far was by somehow shutting them down as much as he could. He'd regained enough control to get up on his feet and walk, and Blair couldn't ask him to jeopardize so much progress. The truth of the matter was, if those men knew he and Jim were here, why would they bother staging an ambush? He considered the state he and Jim were in and almost laughed. Only point of an ambush was if you were scared of your enemy.

"OK, that's it," Blair said at last. The embankment where the path from the road met the beach was so close. Another little rest wouldn't kill them. "How you doing, Jim? Just a little ways further now."

Jim seemed to nod. And then, as though the weight of his head were dragging him down, he just kept sagging forward, taking Blair down with him.

 

* * *

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But his heart was naked_

"No, wait, hey, please," Blair pleaded with him, but he couldn't support all of Jim's weight. The best he could manage was to control their fall as Jim's knees buckled. "It's all right," Blair kept telling him, even as the two of them ended up on their knees in the sand. Jim's hands clenched into fists on Blair's shoulders, and he kept trying to struggle up again.

"Jim, listen to me," he said, more insistently. He pulled away a little bit, taking Jim's hands and pushing them back. That got Jim's attention. He stilled instantly, save for his violent trembling. "We're going to stop here and rest for a few minutes. It's all right. Just going to rest now, all right?"

Blair decided to assume Jim could understand him, and gathered Jim into his embrace again. For a moment Jim remained tense in Blair's arms, rigid with fear. Blair pulled that unyielding form as close as he could, trying to get his arms around Jim's broad shoulders, talking to him ceaselessly. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was just trying to get you to listen to me. Jim, I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here. Right here with you. We're just gonna rest for a minute, that's all."

After an endless moment Jim relaxed a little. He released his breath in a long, low moan, and reached for Blair again, not trying to get up this time, just to hold him. "That's right," Blair whispered. "Just like that. Just gonna catch our breath, then we're outta here, Jim. How does a nice hot shower sound? Some breakfast? I'm sure we can find some place in this little hole in the wall town that can make you a decent plate of scrambled eggs."

Jim's arms tightened around him. His head was heavy against Blair's shoulder. It was awkward kneeling in the uneven sand, and not very comfortable, but Blair didn't try to move. It would be hard enough getting Jim to his feet again. Almost impossible, he was afraid, if he let Jim sprawl out on the cold ground to rest. After a time he felt Jim's head move, and Blair hoped it meant he was ready to continue. "OK," he said, and shifted a little, bringing his knee up, getting ready to try to stand. Jim's hold loosened a bit. "All right, man," Blair said, encouraged. "Now let's go. You ready?"

In response, Jim laid one hand heavily on Blair's shoulder. His intent was unmistakable. He was trying to hold Blair still. "Jim?" Blair whispered, confused. "You know we can't stay here. What is it?" Jim laid his other hand on Blair's chest, palm flat, fingers spread wide. His head was a little above Blair's, and he was looking down at Blair with an expression that was utterly unreadable in the still faint dawn light. Blair was already trembling with the cold. The warmth of Jim's hand over his heart made the rest of the world seem even colder. "C'mon, man. I know, I know." He wrapped his hand around Jim's forearm, knowing how his mutilated wrist would burn at a touch, but couldn't bring himself to move Jim's hand away. "We're going to stand up now," Blair said, trying again. "Count of three again. Just like last time. OK, Jim?"

Jim's head came up. He was staring over Blair's shoulder, his eyes fixed on something Blair knew he could not see. Blair shook, beyond cold or fear, when Jim again turned his gaze upon him. He wasn't imagining it. He could still taste Jim's blood on his lips.

"Here," Jim moaned, and his hand bore hard against Blair's chest, over his heart.

"Aw, Jim," Blair said, suddenly on the verge of despair. He did know what Jim was seeing. He was utterly certain of it. The final truth, beyond artifice or explanation. Blair's soul as he was, so imperfect, so flawed. OK, so he had some good points, he would grant himself that. The fine scrolls of bloodwork would trace over his avatar's face, over his arms and legs, symbol of the strengths he could claim. But his heart was naked, clean and blank where Jim's hand pressed, seeking. Nothing there. No wonder Jim was disappointed.

"I don't know," was all he could tell Jim. 'I'm sorry. I'm trying the best I can, but --" Jim shook his head slowly. It was such an effort, but he managed it, managed to stop Blair's apology.

Blair sat back on his haunches, head hanging, defeated. He didn't know what to do anymore. He would give everything he was to Jim, but guess what, man, it wasn't enough. It couldn't begin to be enough.

"I know," Blair said, and did not weep. He covered Jim's hand, where it pressed down over his chest, and once again tried to push it away. "I know. But it doesn't matter. Can you stand up? Can we keep going now, or do you need to rest a little while longer?"

Jim didn't answer, and he didn't allow Blair to remove his hand. Moaning softly, otherwise almost voiceless, he pushed harder, his fingers spread wide against Blair's chest. The rain beat down on his bared head, but in the dim light of a dawn that was not very far away, Blair could see something of Jim's shadowed eyes. They flickered from the empty place over Blair's left shoulder, then back to Blair.

"I know," Blair said again. He tried to wrap his hand around Jim's fingers. "I know -- it wasn't -- maybe it wasn't the right thing to do. But you've got to let it go, Jim, please." He stopped trying to push Jim's hand away, and instead caressed the side of Jim's face, gently, as tenderly as he could, until finally Jim was looking only at him.

"I know, Jim," he said, a third and last time. "I've always known I wasn't strong the way you are. Not my body and not my mind. But you've always forgiven me before now." Blair stilled his hand, letting it simply rest against Jim's cheek. "And now I've seen you too, so I know why you've always forgiven me. Why you'll forgive me this time too."

A few tears fell then. Blair couldn't stop them, and saw no reason to try. It would have cost energy he couldn't afford to squander at the moment. "So that's what I need for right now. If you can see some way to keep working with me, even if it's just long enough for me to get us out of here, that's the way I think we've gotta go. So are you with me here? Can you do this with me?"

Jim moved his hand from Blair's chest. "OK?" Blair whispered. "You ready to get up now?" He drew one knee back up, preparing to stand again, still talking nonstop, coaxing Jim along, hoping he would understand somehow. They still had such a long way to go.

Jim put his hand on Blair's face. For a moment Blair thought Jim was mirroring what Blair himself was doing, his own hand still on Jim's face. "That's right," Blair said. "We're gonna move a little further now. You're doing so great here -- "

But then Jim moved his hand so he could press his palm down over Blair's mouth in an unmistakable gesture. _Be quiet._

Blair shut up.

And when he was quiet, Jim got closer, his hands on Blair's shoulders, then on his back, supporting Blair as he urged him backward.

Blair let Jim do what he wanted. Jim kept pushing, so Blair lay back in the sand, supporting himself on one elbow. Jim was insistent, his need so apparent and urgent that Blair could have refused him nothing. He lay down the rest of the way, flat on his back in the sand, waiting.

Sighing with relief, or exhaustion, or some other emotion Blair didn't understand yet, Jim laid his hand on Blair's brow for a moment, then bent over closer, still on his knees beside Blair, and pressed his own forehead to Blair's chest.

_Jim,_ Blair thought.

Jim raised his head and put both hands where his forehead had been. Then he slid his hands away across Blair's chest and laid his cheek there. Blair could feel the muscles in Jim's jaw working. Then his forehead to Blair's chest again, and then his hands, and then the side of his face. Over and over again. More than once Blair felt the press of Jim's lips as he labored over Blair in the sand, trying to get closer to the place where Blair was powerless and naked.

Jim was so silent throughout. Not a moan, not a sigh. Not until the surge of strength and intent slipped away from him, lost so suddenly that when Jim stopped moving, a whimper of confusion escaped him. Whatever he had intended -- whatever he had wanted to do for Blair, to give to him, the strength and will were lost. He remained where he was, kneeling over Blair, but only because he was too exhausted to move. Jim had begun to weep again, quiet sobs that broke from hoarsely from his throat after brief intervals of silence.

Blair couldn't stand it. Not after so much this night. His heart was a wasteland, parched and barren, burning under an august sun. He had the insane, almost irresistible desire to push Jim away, drag himself back down to the surf and throw himself into the water. Anything to stop the anguish of such infertile pain. But of course he didn't. Instead he arched his back enough to reach up and wrap his arms clumsily around Jim's head and neck and try to pull him closer, selfishly seeking comfort from Jim -- _from Jim_ \-- tonight of all nights.

In response, Jim moved closer. Trembling with cold and exhaustion, he laid down on the miserably cold, harsh sand, curling around Blair as closely as he could, his arms around the small of Blair's back, one leg drawn up and resting over Blair's thighs, the weight of his head on Blair's chest.

"OK, Jim," Blair whispered, hearing his own broken voice. He resisted the urge to clutch Jim tighter, even though he needed the warmth of Jim's body over his so badly. "OK. We'll rest here for a minute more. Just till you're ready to go."

Jim's head moved against his chest, and his arms tightened at the small of Blair's back. Blair's own head dropped back in surrender and he stared up at the gray dawn sky. The rain was a stinging mist, burning his eyes. Jim was shivering miserably, but he only curled closer to Blair, as though just holding him were some protection from the elements.

But Blair knew the truth. In the depths of his torment, Jim had screamed for him. Had escaped his captors at last, seeking him. And finding him, had found the bitter truth as well. Blair had cut them both to reveal it to him. There was no refuge or protection to be found after all. Blair had nothing to offer him. He loosened his grip so he could spread his hands across Jim's trembling shoulders. This, at least, he could give Jim, even if nothing else. He stroked the back of Jim's head with one hand, his other quiet on Jim's back. So his heart was untested and innocent, a void. He loved Jim all the same, Blair thought with sudden defiance. He loved him with every fiber of his being. That was the truth, he was certain of it.

It grew lighter slowly, the night shading infinitesimally toward day. Blair's head rolled to the side, and in the last lingering shadow of darkness before the dawn, he saw it too.

_Whoa,_ Blair thought, the hair on the back of his neck rising. _Sure got that wrong._

 

* * *

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Blair felt the white heat again_

A creature of wild beauty stood on the beach, head thrown back, arms spread wide. His flesh was cross-hatched with thick red lines, painted in bright blood the rain could not touch. The lines spread across his face, down his arms and over the palms of his open hands, across his belly and his thighs, even down his calves and bare feet. Only the chest and throat were unmarked, and that alone allowed Blair to recognize himself, though he had been wrong about what that nakedness meant. Light blazed from the bare places, so hot, so pure that for a moment Blair forgot the cold sand under his back, the colder rain falling into his face.

He put both hands on Jim's head and pressed gently, so the side of Jim's face was warm over his heart, and he let himself feel all the affection he had for Jim without doubt or despair to cloud it. Nothing but the love he had for this man who was the best of all friends, given freely and with joy instead of fear. Jim made a sound that was not a moan or a cry at all, but the sound of a man coming home at last. Blair closed his eyes, just for an instant, but when he looked back, there was nothing but a gull, fat and indolent, perched on a piece of driftwood, staring mulishly at the two of them in the sand.

When Jim spoke, Blair felt the heat of his breath against his stomach. "Help me up," he said, his voice low and harsh. "We need to get moving."

"Jim!" Blair whispered. "Oh man, Jim. Oh, MAN." He kept running his hands over Jim's head, so relieved he hardly knew what to do. None of it mattered. None of it. Jim was going to be OK. He was, Blair was certain now. First things first. Jim was right. They had to get up. Blair had had just about enough of wet, cold sand and pouring rain. Work on little goals first. Little rewards, one at a time.

"Hey, Jim," he said quietly. "Know what's gonna feel great? Getting to the car and getting out of the rain. Cranking up the heat, finally getting warm for the first time all night. What do you say?"

Jim's head nodded a little against Blair's chest, but he didn't loosen his grip. Blair thought perhaps he didn't understand that Blair couldn't get up; neither one of them could while Jim's arms were locked around him like that. Or maybe he did know, and just couldn't let go anyway. Blair thought he understood that.

"OK," Blair breathed. "OK. Everything's gonna be fine. Let's try this though. Just so we can get out of here." He smoothed his hands over Jim's head again, gently stroked the curve of Jim's throat with his open hand, then ran his palms over Jim's shoulders and back, as far as he could reach. He could feel the way Jim seemed to shiver with every touch. Not from cold or pain. Not even fear. Or if there was fear, it was less important than Jim's need. "It's all right, Jim," he whispered. "I've got you. You're safe now. Not ever going to leave you again. I promise. I promise."

Blair shifted just the tiniest bit, and Jim's arms tightened like steel bands.

"Hey, wait, it's OK," Blair breathed. "You listening to me here? It's OK." He brought one hand up and touched Jim's face. "Just need for you to work with me here, and I'll take care of you. You know you can trust me, Jim. You know you can believe me."

Blair waited a long time, then. The white dawn sky shone in bars beneath the heavy clouds, low slanting lines through the thin rain. Blair could see the gray light on the surf from where he was. The water looked cold. Finally, Jim nodded again.

Once again Blair felt tears start to his eyes. "Aw, Jim. That's right. You're doing it just right. Now I'm gonna move just a little more here, but I'm not going anywhere without you, got it?"

Blair shifted again, more purposefully this time, turning toward Jim. Jim released him enough to allow Blair to roll onto his side. Blair whispered encouragements the whole time, and when he was stretched out beside Jim, he put his hands on Jim's sides and gently eased him up, so that he was no longer curled around Blair, but instead lying full length beside him. Then Blair put his arms around Jim and held him without moving for a time, waiting until Jim was calm.

Blair's heart was beating fast too, and he was panting with exhaustion. Oh god, they still had a long way to go before they found safety. The thought of that distance was enough to make him despair, but that wasn't an option anymore, not with Jim here in his arms, holding him with such frank and utter trust, believing Blair when everything else in the universe had betrayed him.

Blair felt white heat again. This time it wasn't displaced. It was here, between them, over his heart, next to Jim's. He had known how much he loved Jim. But he had never suspected his own strength, never had an idea how much power that love gave him. Its warmth flared between them, and Blair heard himself gasp a little. Jim only pressed closer.

Again, long moments passed. But Blair waited, serene and calm in his strength, and when it was time he drew one knee up carefully and pulled his arm back, tucking it under himself so he could push himself up. Jim didn't protest his movement, not even when he had to let go of Jim with one arm.

"Gonna sit up now, OK, Jim? But I'm not going to leave you. I'm never going to leave you." Blair slowly pushed himself up until he was kneeling beside Jim in the sand. He kept one hand on Jim's shoulder the whole time, and Jim lay very still, only shivering a little.

"Aw, Jim," Blair moaned, humbled by Jim's trust. He bowed his head so he could press his forehead to Jim's shoulder. One of Jim's hands came up and gently cupped the back of Blair's head as he knelt there, so Blair stayed where he was. His heart was racing. Such a tiny gesture from Jim, but it meant everything in the world. The warmth of Jim's hand above the nape of his neck was another sign Jim was coming back to him.

Blair touched Jim's face gently. He couldn't see Jim because his eyes were closed, his forehead still pressed to Jim's naked shoulder. "Now?" he asked.

"Now," Jim breathed hoarsely in response, and tried to sit up.

"Careful," Blair said. "Easy, Jim. No hurry, no rush here. Just take your time, man." He sat up part way himself, pulling Jim's arm around his own shoulders. "Here we go. Just let me help you, and we'll be OK."

Jim's eyes were squeezed shut. It was light enough for Blair to see more than he really wanted to. Jim's lower lip was swollen a little on one side, the corner of his mouth puffy and beginning to darken. There were marks around Jim's left eye, too, the beginnings of nasty shiner.

And those welts across Jim's chest. Little white patches where the skin was beginning to blister. Blair's stomach rolled over. He was so lightheaded for an instant that he shut his eyes, afraid he was about to faint. "OK," he gasped. "OK, just give me a minute here."

Jim moaned in response, frightened, and Blair opened his eyes fast. Geez, what was the matter with him? "Sorry, Jim. Sorry, I'm OK. You ready now?" He tightened the grip he had on Jim's forearm, then slowly sat up and pulled back, pulling Jim up as he did. Jim did his best to help, his head down, his other hand pushing in the sand. Blair rose to a crouch. Jim's arm was still over his shoulders, and he wrapped his own arms around Jim's ribs. Jim's back was gritty with sand. Both of them were covered with it. Blair thought how the sand and salt water must be hurting Jim, and pushed the thought away furiously. That distress did no good. There was nothing he could do about it until he got Jim off the beach.

"And here we go, man. Up and at 'em." Blair lurched to his feet, trying to drag Jim up with him. Seemed like all they had been doing all night. Staggering up again and again, trying their damnedest to get off the beach. Harder every time. Blair was amazed Jim still had the strength to keep trying.

_You gave him that strength._ A tiny voice from somewhere far away, or perhaps very, very close that he was too weary and determined to censor. _Your strength, Sandburg. Your love._

_Aw man. There we go._ They were standing again. "Jim?" Blair whispered, and Jim wrapped his arm around Blair's head and pulled him closer, tucking Blair's head under his chin.

Under his hands, Blair felt the fine coating of beach sand on Jim's skin shift and grind together. It was between them too, an omnipresent irritation, he could even feel it on his legs under his jeans. Jim shuddered a little, still trying to hold Blair closely, chin resting hard against the top of his head as if the weight of his own was too much to bear alone.

"Shhh," Blair murmured, even though Jim hadn't said anything. Aimlessly he moved his hands, beginning to try to brush the sand off Jim's back. Jim gasped and his back spasmed as if he'd been whipped. Blair froze. His stomach clenched in dismay and he held his breath, not daring to move at all, waiting to see if Jim would flee the pain again. Jim shook, and Blair could feel the weight bearing down on him as Jim's knees buckled slightly. "No," Blair moaned. They'd gotten so close, been doing so well... OK, all they'd done was stand up, but it was progress, and now he was going to lose even that.

But Jim's arms tightened around him, sliding a little, the sand digging into them both across the contact, and his knees locked stubbornly. He leaned heavily on Blair, breathing in painful gasps, his whole body continuing to shake for a minute.

"OK, I won't do that again, I promise," Blair whispered. He kept himself still, letting Jim regain what little equilibrium he had, his own breath rough.

The dawn continued to rise, gray and silent, the misty rain almost indistinguishable from the salty fog forming around them that glowed with the light as if the air was alive. The sound of the surf was a constant dull roar in the background. Blair could hear it over the harsh sound of Jim's labored breathing. Twisting his neck a little, he looked in the direction they had to go to reach the car, but the fog hid their destination. All he could see was a barricade of sand where the beach ended and the higher ground started. Scrub grass was clumped on the face of the slope, looking sharp-edged even in the fuzzy lighting.

Blair couldn't help the sigh that heaved through his chest. He remembered it had been at least three hundred yards from where the car was parked on the narrow shoulder of the road, across the uneven ground to that sharp drop onto the sandy shore. It had been a short, easy hike for him on the way in. Returning looked like an impossible journey.

 

* * *

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In the soft silence of the fog-bound morning like a lost god_

Jim's head turned slowly, and lifted off the top of Blair's. He seemed to be looking in the same direction Blair was. He had to have been, because Blair felt the motion of Jim's chest hard against his in a sigh that echoed the one he had just given. "We can make it, man," he said firmly. "We got this far and you're doing better all the time, and this is just not that hard." _Nope, not at all._ Blair nodded as if he had convinced himself.

A faint, uneven sound came from Jim's chest, and it took Blair a moment to recognize the chuckle of amusement. It sounded too much like the sobs he had heard earlier.

Blair grinned, hard, because the only other alternative was to give in to the prickling behind his eyes, and he had done too much of that already. "OK," he admitted, slowly beginning to slide sideways, maneuvering to get them both facing the same direction. "So it's going to be hell. You've done worse. I've done worse. Just keep thinking about the car up there, and how nice it will be to get **warm**."

He was extraordinarily careful as he moved, lifting his arms away from Jim's back, then moving, then replacing them with as smoothly flat a touch as he could. Jim stood still, letting go of his hold as Blair moved out of his embrace. He shivered at each change of contact, sometimes flinching as sharply as if struck, but made no sound. His right hand locked on Blair's shoulder and stayed there, only the quivering of his fingers to bespeak his weakness.

Blair told himself the first step would be the hardest, and all the rest would have to be easier. Though his left arm was around Jim's back, he didn't try to pull him along. Instead, he reached up with his other hand and wrapped his fingers around the back of Jim's hand where he was gripping Blair's shoulder so fiercely. Blair took a long, deep breath, knowing Jim would feel and hear him. He tightened his fingers momentarily around Jim's hand, then scuffed one foot forward. The wet, crusted peaks of sand broke under the sole of his foot. The drier sand underneath crunched and swelled up a little, sliding up between his toes and across the top of his foot. He thought how Jim would be feeling so much more, and wondered how he could stand it, and why he kept fighting anyway.

But he knew the answer to both questions, and had known even before he'd seen the truth back there on the beach. This was **Jim** , his friend, the better half of his heart, the strongest part of his soul. And as Blair had known he would, when Blair took that first step across the sand, Jim moved too, more purposefully than Blair, moaning softly, but walking all the same, allowing Blair to guide him toward home.

It was such a slow journey. The sand sucked at Blair's feet, grabbing at him with every step. It slipped and shifted under him so his balance was bad, and even though he moved very carefully, he knew each step was agony for Jim. But Jim never stopped, even though they lurched forward like Frankenstein's monster in stiff-legged, lumbering steps that were more a continuing effort not to fall down than a means of progressing forward.

It wasn't really all that far to the edge of the sand, but Blair was panting as if he had run a marathon by the time they reached it. Jim's grip on his shoulder was so painfully tense he knew there would be a bruise there in a day. He ignored it. Under his left arm, wrapped tightly around Jim's back, he could feel the shivering and flinching of his muscles, as non-stop and involuntary as hiccups.

It was when they stumbled to a halt in front of the five-foot face of crumbling sand and dirt that Blair had a chance to stop and look at Jim again. He felt his heart breaking, an actual physical pain in his chest, at the sight of the tears silently tracking down Jim's cheeks.

They couldn't stop, not now, not when they had momentum going and the light was growing around them, and they had so far to go... and he couldn't care about it. He really couldn't. "Rest," Blair said faintly, pushing the word out between breaths. As if it had been agreed on that rests would take place by having Jim lean on him, he tightened his arm to draw Jim even closer to him, craning his neck so he could press his temple on the arch of Jim's collarbone. "I'm so, so sorry," he whispered.

Jim's chin rested on the top of his head for a moment, then that hoarse, ruined voice rasped, "Keep going."

Blair twisted his neck a little bit more, just far enough to be able to touch his lips to Jim's skin for a second. Then he did as he was told and moved forward again. He heard Jim's hissed intake of breath as they tackled the steep little slope. Five lousy feet up. It might as well have been the south face of K-14.

There wasn't any way to do it with his arm still around Jim's back, Blair realized that as soon as they tried together. Their balance simply wasn't good enough so long as they tried to act as a single climber. Pulling them back the half step to level ground, Blair shook his head and stared along the beach, hoping to see a low spot they could climb with greater ease. But in truth it was only worse for the meager distance he could see, and he knew they didn't have the strength to wander aimlessly along the embankment until they found a better spot.

"This isn't going to work, man," he said heavily.

Beside him, Jim shifted, trying to pull forward, wanting to keep going, afraid to stop moving. For a moment Blair instinctively tried to pull him back, but then he moved with Jim instead. They hit the low, crumbling slope together, and Blair had to take his arm from Jim's back in order to pull himself up. He heard the bitten-back cry as he did, knew the tears would still be rising in Jim's eyes even as his expression stayed fiercely determined, and couldn't let himself slow down to look. If he did, he knew neither one of them would ever get over this obstacle.

The sand slipped away under his feet, giving him no purchase. Grabbing at the clumps of grass, he tried using them to haul himself up, feeling the roots pull out of the weak soil. They weren't much help at all, and the sharp edges of the leaves cut his palms like blades.

Finally, it was nothing but concentrated, constant effort that got him over the barrier. He simply kept digging his feet in and replacing them slightly higher until he was high enough on the face to flop over the edge on his stomach and drag himself the rest of the way. Blair crawled and grabbed at the ground like a hermit crab, wriggling and scrabbling until he was all the way over the lip and on flat ground. He didn't know if Jim had made it beside him, and much as he wanted to lie flat on his belly and rest for just a minute, he couldn't. Not until he knew Jim was OK, was with him. Wasn't huddled alone and despairing a few feet away, unable to join him.

He lifted his head, chin grating on the harder dirt, and began to pull his arms under his chest, trying to lever himself up off the ground. His knees dragged across the sandy soil, bumping on the clumps of grass that stuck up like sea urchins. It seemed to take forever to get to his hands and knees. Getting all the way to his feet seemed premature. _Might need to get right back down on the ground again and pull Jim over the top of the slope._ Yeah, that was it. Go pull Jim up. He nodded to himself, his hair hanging on either side of his face, crusted with salt and sand.

He turned to look beside himself, a process that involved his entire upper body. He knew he should have expected what he saw, but he trembled anyway, and felt the familiar, terrible ache rise at back of his throat.

Jim had made it on his own, his longer legs and reach giving him a natural advantage on the climb. He hadn't even had to crawl over the top, like Blair's ignominious ascent. Somehow he'd made it and come out standing after all, and Blair wondered fleetingly if Jim would have stood better alone all along. The thought was gone before it finished forming, washed out by the memory of the true, flawless power that had shown white and warm between them. There was no alone for Jim, not any more, not ever.

Jim stood in the soft silence of the fog-bound morning like a lost god, the misting rain that still fell glistening on his bared skin with the sand. Blair's head tilted back as he looked up at Jim, and he revised his metaphor. An abandoned god, one whose images had been desecrated and scarred, yet still endured past their torment. Like a statue dedicated to a war, Jim radiated pain and exhaustion, and still somehow a sense of victory that could not be taken away. The marks on his wrists were plainly visible now, as he bent and reached for Blair. The bruises on his face were shadows that only highlighted the strength of the soul beneath.

His eyes were still leaking slow tears, but Jim didn't seem to know that. Nor did he appear to realize his bare feet were cut and staining the sand crimson where he stood. But the hand that touched Blair's, sliding along the back of it until it grasped his wrist, wasn't that of a god. It was the trembling touch of a man, his friend, and Blair took hold of Jim's forearm in return and put all his effort into standing back up.

Jim drew him in, took an uncertain step forward away from the edge of the slope to reach him, and Blair opened his arms gladly. "You're doing so good," he crooned, not even meaning Jim at the moment but the symbiotic creature they had become in their struggle together.

Jim came to rest against him with a quiet sigh, not asking for what Blair freely offered but accepting what he was given. Though the need had to be clawing at him from within, shaking him with the desire to erase his pain with touch, he only wrapped his arms around Blair gently. It was Blair who guessed his need and pulled him closer, arching his own back a little as if that could broaden the sweep of his chest to give Jim more contact. Blair pressed his face into the crook of Jim's neck, and whispered, "We're going to make it." The pressure against him as Jim nodded gave him more hope than he'd had in what felt like ages.

It would be easy now. Blair held on to Jim and fortified himself with that knowledge for a minute. So when the first shots echoed sharply through the air, he flinched as violently as Jim.

 

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	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Closer to the end of the hurting_

Shocked by the gunfire, Blair felt them falling, beginning to crumple toward the ground, and he cried aloud with the frustration of it. Jim flinched again at that, still holding him, and jerked back upright as if he had been commanded to. "Keep going," Blair gasped, pulling Jim away from the edge, in the direction they needed to go. "Just keep going." The first few shots escalated into a fusillade of nearly constant fire, echoing weirdly through the morning silence, seeming to come from all around them in the thick fog.

Though the ground was firmer on the upper plateau than it had been down below in the sand, the hummocks of grass were worse hazards. They hid sharp stones, and kept stray branches locked across between themselves like tripwires. Blair had thought getting across the loose sand down on the beach was difficult, but this was a nightmare.

 

* * *

Holding Blair again had been like coming home after a long trip and finding peace. When it was shattered by the sound of guns firing in the middle distance, Jim flinched from the impact of the noise, and the instinctive knowledge he was about to lose the brief respite of contact he needed so badly.

He didn't know who was shooting at who - it seemed unlikely he and Blair were the targets with the fog so thick around them it was hard to see ten feet ahead. The sound of the shots brought back more flashes of memory, enough to know there were other enemies present, not necessarily the ones who had held him but who would treat him no more kindly if they met. It was barely possible the shots might come from men who claimed to be friends of his, though his conception of friend had narrowed down to a single soul.

Had he tried, he could have extended his focus and listened to the sounds between the shots, heard the calls of the attackers and known who was storming the beach house, but the impact of the reports struck him hard, each one ripping through his fragile control, punching holes in the tattered lace of stability he still retained. It left him not only unable to listen, but unable to care, because it really didn't matter who was killing whom back at the place he had been hurt. There was nothing there for him any more. Nothing for him anywhere but here.

"Keep going," Blair's voice said beside him, and the warmth of his embrace was gone leaving only the cold, sharp sand on Jim's skin. "Just keep going."

There was a pressure on his back as Blair's arm went around him again, urging him forward, and he moved both because of the pull and to escape the clawing agony of the sliding friction it unwittingly caused. His own arm was pulled over strong shoulders, his hand held tight on that side, and he stumbled forward, barely aware of anything but the idea there would be surcease of pain sometime, somewhere. Blair had promised him. Blair never lied to him.

More shots, some rapid and harsh, others crackling faintly. Then, suddenly, the deep roar of an explosion. He felt the passing shockwave crest over his skin, and could not help leaning harder on the wavering support next to him as the sound and heat of it poured over him like a pyroclastic blast. The roar peaked and wiped everything for a moment, the world going white with agony. Jim clung to Blair like a drowning man, and for that moment, even more than he had been in the surf, he was. And yet, somehow, he didn't fall. Blair bore up under him like the solid stone pillar of an ancient temple holding aloft a stone roof of unimaginable weight with inexorable strength.

When the worst of the heat and sound subsided they were still moving, still plowing across the soft ground. They stumbled between the hummocky grasses as if they inhabited a hell all their own which consisted of nothing but an endless struggle to reach some unattainable goal. Jim closed his eyes, surrendering all direction to Blair. Nothing mattered but the arm around his back, the tight grasp on his hand, and the need to stay at his side no matter what.

It worked for a while. He had no way of knowing how long; time had ceased to have any meaning for him some time during the night when everything else that had meaning had been taken from him. Everything but the one holding him up now. Weakly, his fingers tightened on Blair's, and he took another heavy, dragging step. Closer to wherever it was Blair wanted him to go. Closer to the end of the hurting.

Light beat against his eyelids like heat, and he kept his eyes closed, following Blair's leading with utter blind trust. But shutting off one sense as much as he could only let the others push at him more insistently. The shooting had stopped, but the cries of the gulls greeting the morning were loud and angry in his ears and the background roar of the surf pounded harder against him with every step. The taste of salt in his mouth was bitter, mixed with the unfamiliar, disturbingly sweet copper tang of blood. And his skin... he sobbed once, catching his breath around the pain, then holding his jaw tight against it.

"Shhh, we're almost there," Blair told him, though it took several breaths to say so.

Jim really had thought he could make it.

He tried. He kept trying even after the last of his strength gave out. When Blair had let go of his hand and rolled out from under the pinning of his weight on the uneven ground, he kept trying, crawling in the direction he had fallen, still blind but knowing more was needed of him.

"It's only a little ways, Jim, please, we can do it." There was a note of desperation in Blair's voice he recognized. It was the one that meant things were bad, and he had to fix it. "I can see the car, we're almost there." But like everything else he had tried in his life, the closer success came, the more impossible it was to reach it. His arms trembled, sharp pain shooting up from one wrist, and gave under his weight.

Jim lay, stretched on the ground, unable to even crawl any longer, and reached with his arms as if he could find some purchase on the ground and pull himself flat along it. Gentle hands caught his, brought them back down, stilled their trembling. Jim shivered, his breath burning in his throat with frustration and exhaustion. "Just rest for a few minutes, we made it," Blair said, and then Jim felt the jostling as Blair quietly laid down on the cold ground next to him, and pulled him close.

Jim's arms were trapped in front of him, against Blair's chest. He laid his palms against the matted hair, searching for the heat beneath. Slowly he slid his hands upward, feeling the rolling sand catching on his skin, on Blair's skin, tiny sharp corners of the grains tipping and digging in over and over.

Eyes still closed, he moved slowly, his touch feather-light as if trying to read braille. Along the arching points of Blair's collarbone, the hollow of his throat where the pulse beat sure and strong, Jim's touch skimmed, seeking. And then to either side of his neck, over the arteries with their echo of Blair's heartbeat thundering steadily within, until Jim cradled the column of Blair's neck between his hands, fingertips nearly meeting over his spine, thumbs caught on the line of Blair's jaw above.

It was there. The incandescent heat he had felt before, the white light that didn't hurt, the love that had shone from the beautiful, feral avatar of Blair he still confused with the real one. The love that had always shone in Blair's eyes.

Cradling Blair's neck as if it were an infinitely precious and fragile chalice, Jim hesitantly stretched forward, just enough to lay his cheek against Blair's, softly reverent as a kiss. Blair shuddered under his touch, the arms around him going tighter and yet more tender at the same time. Jim breathed Blair's name, and felt the catch of his breath in his throat and chest. Jim's thumbs traced the line of that strong, pointed jaw again, before his hands slid upward, wholly lost in the tangled hair still cold with seawater. The uncountable points of pain that had screamed at him were quieting, and the exhausted trembling of his useless muscles was abating. But the great hollow ache in his chest was still there, and the knowledge that all Blair's love couldn't give him back what he had lost.

He opened his eyes slowly, feeling the brush of his own eyelashes against Blair's skin on that side, aware of the trace they left in the salt coating him. "Please, help me," he whispered. Even he did not know what he was asking for, only that no one but Blair could provide it.

But just as he had always done, Blair gave him what he needed. Blair's embrace loosened slowly, the reluctance of his arms' withdrawal reassuring Jim he was not being let go entirely. Blair didn't truly let go, he only shifted his hands from Jim's back, sliding them carefully until he cradled Jim's head in a mirror image of the way he was being held himself. Then he slowly shifted his face away, even further than Jim's last-minute attempt to follow him and maintain the contact could reach, so he was able to look directly into Jim's eyes.

"You have the strength within you," Blair said, his voice at first hoarse with the depth of his emotion. It smoothed as he continued. "I saw it, Jim, I know it's there." So close their noses nearly touched, his eyes met Jim's intently, dark blue in the gray light. Blair's thumbs ghosted over Jim's cheekbones, outlining the firm planes with such gentle care the touch could not hurt. "You've always had it, and you always will." The delicate stroke repeated, as if Blair were trying to draw Jim's attention to the shape of his own features. "It's who you are."

"No," Jim moaned, his eyes half-closing, knowing who he was, knowing it was not the man Blair thought he knew. There was nothing left of that Jim Ellison but a cracked, fragile shell.

"Yes," Blair said, and gentle as his voice was, it carried unyielding determination. "I know you haven't changed because you showed me, Jim. I saw your soul. I tasted your strength. You gave it to me." His features softened for a moment, puzzlement in his eyes and uncertainty in his touch as he held Jim's face in his hands. "How can you not know that?"

Looking into Blair's eyes, Jim saw himself reflected back, stripped of who he had tried to be until there was only who he was. But the person he was in Blair's eyes was not the lesser for it. It was hard for Jim to believe he could be loved that much. Enough to redeem his soul when he had thought it given away for nothing more than surcease of his body's cries of pain. He looked deep into Blair's eyes, searching for himself, for his lost soul, and found it there, being held safe for him.

"Take it back, Jim. Know your own strength. Taste what you have given me." Blair's lips touched his, and Jim closed his eyes, welcoming home the part of himself that had been lost.

 

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	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Beating in his breast like a living thing_

Blair's mouth lingered on his only for a few seconds, and then was gone, but the power of what he had done remained strong with Jim. The air he drew in a great breath seemed cleaner, his mind sharper, the press of Blair's chest to his warmer and more solid. He blinked, a residual image of Blair's features overlain with swirling patterns painted in delicate crimson strokes superimposing itself on his vision. Blair's eyes were dark, his pupils expanded so widely that only a narrow ring of ocean-deep blue showed. His breathing had gone ragged, as if he had felt something of the force Jim had, and his hands trembled on either side of Jim's face.

Jim stared into Blair's eyes, deep, endless wells whose darkness was a comforting haven rather than a thing to fear, and the power of his own emotion rose, beating in his breast like a living thing, winding around his throat until breathing was difficult. He didn't know how to express so much love, because he had never felt it before, never known what it truly was to be loved so greatly in return. Gently lifting one hand, drawing it from the warming tangle of hair, he laid it on the side of Blair's face like a benediction. Nothing but the truth could be given between them now. "You make it stop hurting," he said.

For a moment Blair was silent, but Jim knew he had been heard. The brilliant sparkle of new tears filming over those clear eyes told him. But rather than let them fall, Blair caressed Jim's face one more time, then slid his arms back around to hold him firmly, and whispered brokenly, "That's all I ever wanted to do."

The cold dawn breeze came up, flitting over them like a ghost, stirring the sand around them until it made tiny hissing noises. It touched Jim's skin, and he shivered, drawing closer into Blair's warmth. In his ear, Blair chuckled very weakly. "Well, that and get warm and dry."

Jim could smell cordite on the breeze, and burning wood and plastic and meat, the mix of odors from a messy explosion. It turned his stomach violently and he swallowed down the dry heave with a wrenching spasm of his gut.

"Jim?" Blair's hold gentled on him in concern.

"We need to go," Jim gasped, and buried his face against Blair's neck, dragging in the salted, wet scent of his skin, holding that in the forefront with all his concentration.

Not understanding why Jim needed him so, but not questioning it, Blair waited for him, holding him carefully, spreading out his hands on Jim's back as if he could cover enough area to keep him warmer that way. Jim's breath and lashes tickled at the sensitive skin of his neck, and he shivered, automatically pulling a little closer. "When you're ready, Jim," he said very quietly. "Just let me know, and we'll get in the car, and we are, like, **so** out of here."

Jim nodded tersely, drawing another breath, nose practically pressed to the point under Blair's ear. Blair shivered again and gasped a chuckle, but didn't push him away. It was Jim who moved first, unwinding his hands from Blair's head, tensing his shoulders with the first effort to get himself upright. At that sign of willingness to go on, Blair drew his legs away from where they had been tangled with Jim's, shifting backward slightly, yet still careful to keep one hand in firm contact with him.

Blair made it to his knees first, kneeling next to Jim, still holding his shoulder. At the withdrawal from full contact, Jim had hissed a small sound to himself, and now his jaw was held tightly as he put his hands underneath himself and pushed his body upward. "That's it, come on," Blair encouraged him softly. Eyes narrowed to where only a flash of their startlingly bright color showed in the milky light, Jim kept going, getting first to his hands and knees and then drawing his legs underneath, forcing himself to stand, slowly unfolding upright. He grasped Blair's forearms and felt Blair's hands tighten on his own, trying to take as much of Jim's weight as he could, bracing Jim as he got to his feet.

Once fully standing, Jim could have laughed, or wept - the two were too much alike for him at the moment to know which he felt more like. He could see the car, about 30 feet away at the limit of visibility in the already thinning fog.

Blair moved against his side, arm fitting around him as solidly, as naturally as it had all night. "See?" he said happily. "Told you, almost there. I can feel the heater now."

Leaning heavily on Blair, Jim shuffled the last ten yards to the car. It was the only one parked by the road, halfway off on the sandy shoulder, looking abandoned. He wouldn't have recognized it at all; it was a decrepit, faded red Chevy Citation with rust all around the wheel wells and a long scrape along the passenger side that ended in a crumpled rear quarter panel.

As if to keep his mind off the distance, Blair kept up a steady stream of encouragement mixed with explanation as they moved, his pace set precisely by how well Jim could move, neither dragging him forward nor slowing him down. "That's good, Jim, we're gonna make it, you'll be OK now, I've got you. Isn't that a piece of junk? I knew I was renting a lemon, but jeez, I'd hoped to get one with some more juice left in it." Another yard covered in slow, agonizing steps. "I'm right here, and I won't leave, so take your time. Nobody will know it's us, I figured your truck might get recognized so I came all the way down in this thing. You wouldn't believe how badly it handles, man. I've had bicycles with better suspension. That's it, you're doing great here, you want to rest any time you just say so, or stop, or whatever. I'm right with you. For good, man, don't forget that." His voice was soft, the words sometimes catching on his roughened breathing as he moved with Jim across the uneven ground.

"So, anyway, when Simon told me what was going on, I couldn't believe it! Jim, you didn't exactly tell me the whole story, did you?" The barest hint of gentle reproach colored his words. "Man, those guys have a rep even on campus, and no way was I going to just hang out at home and wait for you to show up again. Like, been there, tried that, and it totally sucked. Anyway, I'm really hoping you can put the word in for me when Simon hears about this, though. I sorta didn't tell him I was coming down here after you and I stayed totally away from their operation, totally, like miles, Jim, honest." Feet barely lifting off the ground, they shuffled forward another six feet, laboriously going around a big, spiky clump of grass directly in the way. The detour seemed to take forever.

His voice sounding hoarser with salt and exhaustion, Blair kept talking anyway, because Jim's head was tilted toward him and his face was calm even while he staggered, his weight leaning so heavily on Blair's support. "We're so close, Jim, we're going to be there any second now. You're doing so good here. I know you told me everything would be fine when you left, and I really wasn't planning on following you or anything. I mean, I know there wasn't any reason for me to worry, and I did pay the gas bill and everything like you asked.

"I just had this, I don't know, feeling or something." He shivered, a different cold working its way through him, no more explainable than it had been when he first felt it. "I tried, but I couldn't ignore it. It practically hurt, it was so strong. I swear, Jim, all I would have done was hang out nearby, if you hadn't shown up on the beach you never would have known I was around, honest. I promise I won't do it again. You're not mad at me about it, are you? It's kinda stupid, I know, and it turned out to be a good idea after all... but...." He trailed off uncertainly as they reached the side of the car and came to an exhausted stop.

Jim registered the cessation of the wash of soothing sound, and opened his eyes again, wincing at the way the morning sunlight managed to strike down through a hole in the fog from straight overhead and glare off a piece of pitted chrome directly into his eyes. He closed them again hastily and stood, swaying a little, leaning on Blair, waiting to find out what they were going to do next.

"Jim?" A gentle touch along his cheek drew his head down, and he slitted his eyes open carefully. "Stay with me, Jim, we are so close to being OK again." His arm still firmly around Jim's back, Blair fished in his own front pocket with his free hand, wriggling in place at the difficulty of wedging his fingers into the still-wet denim. "Oh, man, I hope I didn't lose the keys...."

Jim watched with detached interest as Blair brought out the cheap plastic tag with the car key on it and leaned over far enough to slide the key into the lock. After some determined jiggling it finally yielded and Blair pulled the door open. The squeal of the rusted hinge shot through Jim's head like a spike, and he winced hard, half-turning away from the car.

"Damn!" Blair caught at him, holding him in place with no more than a touch, shifting against him as if to shield him from the sound with his body. Silently he waited, one arm around Jim, the other laying lightly on Jim's chest as if to anchor him. "I'm sorry," Blair whispered as quietly as he could, barely a breath of sound.

Shuddering, Jim stood with his head down until the urge to crawl away from the pain to some deep, dark hole had passed. When he opened his eyes very cautiously, he saw Blair staring at him, at the marks on his skin where the remnants of the agony still centered, sharp thorns he carried in his mind that festered and oozed a slow, hot pain. Jim reached up and gently lifted Blair's hand away, and when their eyes met, Blair's were full and angry, but Jim shook his head and turned back toward the car.

"OK," Blair said, and the tremble in his voice roughened and then eased away. "Can you fit in here? It's got, like, a bench seat so I had to move it closer so I could drive but your legs are so much longer...." He swallowed, and his arm around Jim's back tightened fiercely for a moment as he stared very hard at the car.

In answer, Jim moved forward and carefully folded himself down through the door and onto the seat, wedging his legs into the space between it and the dash with some difficulty. Blair kept his hand on Jim's shoulder the whole time, not able to really help but not willing to let go.

When Jim was fully inside the car, Blair knelt by the open door, keeping his reassuring grasp on Jim's shoulder. "Um, I didn't really think this through... but there isn't any way for me to get in without letting go here for a few seconds. Are you going to be OK with that? I'm only going around the front of the car, you'll be able to see me the whole time, and I'll be _right_ back." He gazed worriedly into Jim's face. "Will you be OK?"

Eyes locked on his with an almost desperate intensity, Jim nodded, as if he had not heard the words.

"Jim, come on here, I need to believe this."

Reaching up slowly, Jim interlaced his fingers with Blair's where they gripped his shoulder. "I will be," he promised hoarsely. There was no choice, whether he could keep his promise or not.

"I'll be there in just a few seconds, I **promise** ," Blair said intently. He waited another minute, and when Jim nodded and loosened the grip on his hand, he closed the door with care and sprinted around the front of the vehicle.

 

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	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Whatever it takes, Jim. Now and forever._

Somebody had spilled mustard on the seat, and the cutting smell of latex told Jim what he would be likely to find under the seat if he cared to look. The heavy, sickening odors of sour milk and cola, sex, and beer- flavored vomit all surrounded him, and they were only the first. With a moan, Jim buried his face in his hands. The scent of Blair's scalp and hair still clung to his skin and he tried to find that, to breathe it in and ignore all the rest. He focused on it, recalling the feel of Blair's warmth against him, the way the ocean salt on his skin had a different scent than the salt of his tears where they had dried on his cheeks, and how the two mingled in his hair. But it was not enough, not nearly strong enough to hold everything else at bay with his concentration ruined beyond recall.

His breath caught in a sob and he folded forward, beginning to retch against the assault of the car's overwhelming collection of odors. He didn't hear Blair unlocking the driver's side door, opening it, or launching himself into the seat.

"Jim! Oh, damn it, Jim, I'm so sorry!" Babbling in his fear, Blair wrapped his arms around Jim, trying to steady him, to be all around for him. It was awkward trying to hold Jim as he curled in pain on the cramped front seat. The best Blair could do was to lay partially against his back, left arm tucked under Jim's throat, the other tight around his waist. The rippling heaves of Jim's reaction shook them both, and Blair felt the horrible helplessness returning. There was nothing he could do but hang on and hope his touch did some good, and it felt like so little when Jim was suffering so much.

The car's interior was ice-cold, the slick vinyl seat seeming even colder than the ground outside had been, leaching the heat from his body. But Blair didn't dare let go of Jim long enough to start the engine, not yet.

Jim gasped, trying to breathe between retching, and only making the reaction worse as his efforts brought more of the stench home to him. Despairing, barely feeling the weight and warmth of Blair resting against his back, he shuddered, tried to sit up as if he could escape the car entirely on his own, and collapsed back into his near-fetal position, curling tighter and burying his face in the hollow of Blair's elbow where it had crossed his throat.

The soft skin there smelled, like all of the rest of both of them, of the sea. Salt and fish, kelp, a hint of oil, the faint touch of seal; Jim was afraid he could pick out the separate scents of each of the orcas in the pod that had passed a day ago. But beneath all that was the anchor he needed, the scent of Blair himself, and all that it meant. Warm mornings in the loft, fresh coffee steaming as it dripped through the maker, the hint of hot electronics rising from the laptop on the kitchen table.

Jim clung to that, trying to imagine the velvety fabric of his robe around his shoulders instead of the cutting grit of the sharp sand that covered his skin with misery. Drawing a deeper breath with his nose pressed to the bend of the joint, he called to his mind the freshness of a basket of laundry warm from the dryer, flannel shirts holding the heat between their folds and sticking to the sheets. It would be morning and Blair's tea would be brewing, probably the delicate Formosa Oolong with its clean, intriguing taste. In the background would be the exotic hint of incense that lingered in the hanging over Blair's bed, teasing at Jim every morning as he passed on his way to the bathroom, reminding him his home had become more than it was.

Jim's heaves quieted slowly, and all the while Blair held him, his cheek laid flat over the broad back, whispering gentle reassurances he tried desperately to believe himself. The humid warmth of Jim's breathing so close against his skin was the central point of contact, all Blair's other sensations spreading out from there. Under his ear he could hear the beating of Jim's heart, the rush of his breathing, and the hoarse rumble of his voice as he sighed, "I'm sorry."

Blair's arm curled tighter around Jim's waist in confusion. "What?" he asked, not sure he had understood. "Jim?"

Jim's breath gusted on his skin, and Blair felt those sensitive lips move slightly where they touched his arm as Jim repeated even more softly, "I'm sorry, Blair."

"No," Blair insisted, curling around him, trying to be more strongly present without pressing too hard and bringing more pain. "No, Jim, you have nothing to be sorry for, you haven't done anything wrong. You... you are so strong, man, I don't even know how to tell you." The sharply exhaled snort of disbelief angered Blair. "You **are** , Jim. In every way that counts. Listen to me, neither of us would have survived if you weren't."

Jim's head rolled weakly on his forearm. "No." His voice was soft, broken. His hands cradled Blair's arm, and moved restlessly, smoothing across the skin with a touch that trembled slightly. "Not me. You."

"Aw, Jim...." Blair let go his hold around Jim's waist. He had to, in order to move up enough to tuck his chin into the sweep of Jim's neck and shoulder. He reached around Jim's right arm, folding his own so that he covered it and encompassed Jim entirely within the scope of his embrace.

Blair rocked slightly, not enough to move the two of them appreciably, only enough to assuage the same restless need to move that Jim's hands expressed. "You are my strength, Jim, you always have been," he whispered. "If I'm carrying it for you right now, then I'm willing to do what you need, whatever it is." He tipped his head a little further, his voice dropping to the merest breath since his mouth was right below Jim's ear. "Whatever it takes, Jim. Now and forever."

Jim's breathing roughened, and he pressed his closed eyes to the firm curve of Blair's biceps, trying helplessly to stem the tears. He had no control any longer, only the vast, aching need for the comfort Blair provided, and an even greater feeling of such overwhelming love he could only hang on, secure within Blair's hold, and let it hold the pain at bay with its purity.

Blair held him for a while then, as long as it took for Jim's breathing to become steady again, for his grip to lose its fervid tension. When he was calm again, lying quiescent within the circle of Blair's arms, Blair began to speak in a low, soft tone. "Focus now, Jim. Ignore the stuff that hurts, that makes you sick, and concentrate on me instead. Feel my arms around you, my touch." He moved his fingers, caressing Jim's skin lightly, slowly enough to avoid digging the sand in further. "If it helps, use my scent to block everything else." He chuckled weakly. "We have **got** to get out of these clothes."

A small huff of breath indicated Jim laughed with him. "Aw, that's it, keep coming back." He shifted slightly and Jim's entire body tensed, going rigid with anticipation of the shock. "No, no, I'm not leaving. But I have to close that damned door, or somebody is going to drive along and take it off at the hinges, and you're gonna have to cover the thing because I waived insurance on this bomb." The next huff from Jim sounded more indignant.

Blair smiled tightly into the side of Jim's neck, and pressed his cheek against it briefly before continuing, "You're doing great. Just listen to me, and trust me, and we'll be OK. We got this far, right? All I'm going to do is close that door, and I won't even let go all the way." He raised his head a little and looked out the still-open door, and decided he could probably hook it with his foot if he really tried. Stretching out his leg, he poked at the curve of the handle with his foot, trying to get his toes wedged into it securely enough to give it a yank back toward them. It tipped his balance sideways and he leaned more heavily on Jim, who made a tiny sound before pressing his face harder into Blair's arm.

Blair gave up immediately, going motionless with sick realization, then very slowly resuming his drifting touch where his hands lay on Jim's arms. "Well, how much could they charge us for this thing, anyway? Probably never even notice the door is missing. Did you see that dent in the side? The rear panel is so bent you can't even open the trunk. The hell with it, really. But you know, I have to sit up sooner or later here, because I need to get you to a hospital..." Jim moaned, a terrible, despairing sound.

"Aw, Jim," Blair moaned too, the pain in Jim's voice striking deep into him. "But I have to, you're _hurt_." He shifted his arm a little, and gently took hold of Jim's right hand with his own. Pulling against the faint initial resistance, he brought it upward, and really saw it for the first time. Dark bruises were starting to show across the back of it, crossing the fine lines of the bones, and his wrist was nearly completely dark under the spotted red abrasions where the skin had been torn. "Jim..." Blair's voice broke, and Jim pulled his hand away.

Blair's stomach was a tight knot of anger and misery, and he felt a strange distant tingling that weakened all his muscles at once, almost as if he were in shock. Knowing how Jim felt every small change in pressure, he could not imagine how those injuries had to hurt, how the pain had to be battering constantly at whatever measure of control the broken sentinel could manage to gather.

"God, Jim." Blair couldn't keep the images from his mind. Jim tied and being hurt, his eyes defiantly open, silent until he had to cry aloud. He had not thought he could feel any more protectiveness, any greater tenderness than he had already, and he wondered blankly at the way it overwhelmed him anew each time. All Blair could do was curl around him and cradle him with all the infinite gentleness of his love and understanding.

Jim trembled in his embrace, as if feeling both the pain of his wounds and the warmth of Blair's body against his. Blair bit his lip, hard, his jaw aching with the desire to cry instead. The second time he tried, his voice started working again. "I should have been there, I know, and god, I wish it had been me instead of you. But I can't take it back now, so you have to let me help you. Please, Jim, let me get you the care you need."

A low groan of denial came from deep within Jim's chest, and he struggled weakly to pull away. After a moment of confusion, Blair let go and as slowly and carefully as he could, disengaged his touch. Even so, as he pulled himself upright, he felt the grit of the sand between them, and the flinch in Jim's back.

Jim pushed himself upright, his breath coming in laborious gasps that caught on the shivers wracking him. With one hand he reached out and caught Blair's shoulder. Blair was surprised at the amount of weight resting on him through that contact.

"No doctor," Jim rasped, his fingers tightening on Blair's skin.

"But..." Blair lifted his hand and let the backs of his fingers rest against Jim's cheek, next to the bruise at the corner of his mouth. "You need help." Pleading with voice and eyes, he begged again, "You have to let me help you here, Jim, I can't...."

Jim shook his head from side to side, more than just a simple denial. "No."

"Why?" Blair asked in despair, dropping his hand to cup Jim's chin and looking directly into his eyes.

"They would touch me." He forced the words out slowly, one at a time, still fighting to keep himself upright by his grasp on Blair's shoulder. "I couldn't... don't let them." Jim dipped his head forward to take a breath directly off Blair's wrist, eyes closing in concentration before he looked up again. His voice was still so hoarse and weak it was barely recognizable. "Everything hurts, except where you are."

Blair's eyes filled, a line from an old song he couldn't even place suddenly running through his head. _I'll be all around you..._ He wanted nothing more than to be able to tell Jim he would be, and knew he couldn't lie. Instead he swallowed hard, and leaned forward to press his cheek against Jim's. "Just tell me what to do," he whispered.

Jim's hand moved tentatively on his shoulder, drawing him closer, and Blair leaned inward, letting his chest come to rest against Jim's, his back twisted a little awkwardly to face him. Jim's voice was a mere sigh of sound, barely audible, as if he were afraid to be heard. "Touch me," he breathed into the soft space below Blair's ear.

 

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	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His heart taking over before his mind could convince him not to try_

Jim's arm slid around Blair's shoulders, holding him near, weight sagging into the support offered. With all the care he had, Blair encircled Jim with his arms, conscious of the way the broad, smooth planes of that strong back shied from the initial contact, then stilled, shivering slightly as he spread his hands wide across them. Jim's breath drifted across his neck again. "Make it stop...."

"Then think of only me, Jim," he said, his voice as soft and quiet as Jim's had been. "I'm here. Close your eyes, and listen to my voice and my heart." He tried to lean further forward, to get more of his skin against Jim's, but it simply wasn't possible in the confines of the car.

He could feel Jim's control slipping, in the way Jim's grasp slowly tightened until he clutched at him desperately, as if drowning. The increasingly ragged laboring of his breathing, the small sound he made even though he tried to bite it back, even the way his muscles spasmed and trembled indicated Jim was losing his tenuous concentration. "Just me," Blair said again, and knew with despair he wasn't making enough of a difference.

Jim tried. He tried so hard to hold on to the warmth where Blair touched him, but the cold, sticky vinyl of the seat covered more area. He tried to hold on to the sound of Blair's voice and heart, and found the screaming of the gulls cutting through him, the surf not so far away crashing constantly like an artillery barrage. The smells of the car were all around, sickening him, overlaid with the stale, heavy reek of old cigarette smoke. Shaking, he caught a handful of Blair's long, lank hair and buried his face in it. Even damp with seawater, it still carried the scents of home and safety, and lay soft on his skin where even the air felt raw and biting.

It wasn't enough. Even the fading scent of the shampoo, with all the images of the loft in the mornings that it conjured, wasn't enough to hold the chaotic battering on his senses at bay. Jim sobbed, knowing he was losing, knowing there was nothing he or Blair could do about it, wanting with every part of his shattered soul to fight it and knowing at the same time he had no strength or will left. Everything had been taken from him, piece by piece over the night, until he had nothing to call his own any longer. Nothing but the few emotions still free of pain that he could hold on to and honor. The only thing he could do at the end of it all was try not to drag Blair down with him as he fell back into the abyss. He took one last deep breath, crushing the silken mass to his face as if to imprint the memory of it on his senses forever. Then, shuddering with effort, he released his hold and tried to back away.

But Blair wouldn't let him. "We can beat this, I know we can!" Looking into Jim's eyes, he saw only a lost pleading, helplessly looking for something he couldn't name or even understand. So much pain, and no hope left.

It was the look in Jim's eyes that did it, that glimpse of a tortured soul trying to hold on at any cost, already having paid as much as he had to offer. Desperation mixed with courage, and Blair acted before he had any idea what he was doing, certain only that he had to do something, his heart taking over before his mind could convince him not to try. As his mouth covered Jim's he felt only the fierce, protective need to take away the pain in any way he could. He hadn't expected to have his own heart go with it, or to know with such irrevocable certainty that he had done exactly the right thing. He'd never known he was capable of such love and tenderness until it was the only thing he had to give.

Jim's eyes closed at the contact, and the spiraling, dizzy anguish he had been falling into slowed, contracted around him, and stopped as all his world became one focused feeling. A feeling that was not unbearable pain, but instead an affirmation of life. The wild fluctuating of his hearing steadied on the beat of Blair's heart, the smells of the car vanished into the warm, underlying scent of Blair's skin, and the salt burning in his mouth faded, lost in the delicate taste that was the essence of Blair's presence. The essence of all that had kept him alive through the long, horrific hours since his capture.

Each of the marks on his skin had flared into being in a hell of agony, and stayed for so long they seemed to be an ineradicable part of himself, no different than if he had been splashed with molten metal that fused to his skin and charred its way into him, sticking to his bones forever. But now, with each passing moment, relief bathed him like a wash of cool, clear water, spreading out from the gentle, hesitant way Blair's lips caught on his. Jim's hand, tangled forgotten in Blair's hair, shook as Jim held on, unable to go through with his intention to free him, unable to do anything but gasp for more of the blessed ease.

He had come to think, during the long night and its endless dawn, that it was the touch of Blair's skin on his that brought surcease from his agony. Only as his tongue met Blair's in a slow, pure caress did he realize it wasn't the contact with his friend's body that had done it at all. It had been the touch of Blair's soul, raw with love as all the barriers between them were taken away, that had brought the suffering to an end. As it always had, since the day he had met him, and known then he was looking into the other half of himself.

Jim drank in the sensations like fresh, sweet water, his eyes stinging with unshed tears that had come straight from his heart. All his world had become the touch of Blair's lips to his, the gentle, unobtrusive way Blair met his uncertain searching, offering the comfort Jim needed without pressure or stinting. He gave in return without demanding, only vaguely aware of Blair's hand sliding up his back to cradle the base of his skull, even less of his own arm going around Blair's waist and holding him with trembling care. For a few moments of sublime peace he floated above himself, drawn entirely away from his imprisoning shell to drift in the perfect acceptance that gave all his control back to him, and he wondered if he wanted to return.

There was no way not to. Tear tracks were cooling on Jim's cheeks as Blair finally, slowly broke the kiss, his breath a faint sob as he did. He buried his face in the curve of Jim's neck as if afraid of what he had done, what Jim had allowed, yet still clinging to him, his left hand cupping the side of Jim's face with the slightest touch. "Please, Jim, please be OK," he whispered.

Beyond words, he turned his face toward Blair's palm, kissing the hollow of it with a brief, delicate sweep of his lower lip. Blair shook harder against him, and then he felt the warm wetness of tears gathering against his skin, the brush of eyelashes moving in a futile attempt to hold them back.

"Shhh. I'm OK," Jim murmured, surprised himself at how true it was. He looked over Blair's shoulder, out the car door, staring blindly at the roadway. Sand grains bounced and rolled across in the constant offshore breeze, collecting in long, thin bars that reached halfway to the chipped center line. He couldn't hear them moving any more. His hand moved, letting go its grip on the damp tangle of hair, and he held Blair's head against him, still stunned at the magnitude of the change, at the power of such a simple gift.

He drew a cautious breath, cradling Blair a little closer, tenderly as though he really were holding the better half of his soul warm in his arms. He was whole again, intact. A paradox, since he knew it was the proximity of another that allowed him to find himself again, distinct from the world around him, no longer the helpless victim of every fleeting sensation. It was a paradox he was in no hurry to resolve. Blair's love was necessary to him, and he had known that for almost as long as he had known Blair. As necessary as Sandburg's touch, the warmth in his eyes and heart, the background of that strong heart beating in the near distance, always.

The memory of Blair's lips warm and soft against his own healed the tattered places in his soul where the world had been rushing through. He was rooted in this place now, and in time as well. Past and future separated in his mind, each receding from the other. The present was manageable at last, no longer an endless extension of what had gone before becoming all he would ever know. Instead he was given the feeling of Blair's tears and snuffling breaths against his shoulder, Blair's arms around him, his hand at the back of Jim's head, holding him so carefully, holding him to the present.

And the future was not so very far away, because Blair had promised him. He would be warm and dry, they both would be. The pain would end, and the morning sunlight would stream into the loft again. Almost impossible to sleep late, the way it lit the high ceiling, even with the eyeshade. Blair loved it, of course, hedonist that he was. He was up to welcome the sun whenever the skies were clear, cradling his coffee cup in both hands, curled in the warmth of the morning sunlight streaming from every window. How on earth had he managed in the warehouse? Jim couldn't imagine Blair living in a home without windows. It occurred to Jim that it was almost as though he'd been preparing for Blair all along when he'd bought the loft. Never knowing the course he was set upon, yet following it faithfully to this distant endpoint.

But there was no way to think of the future without remembering the past, and Jim felt the return of memory like a blow. He must have clutched at Blair a little too hard then, the way Sandburg grunted in surprise, and he tried to make himself let go, to hold Blair more gently and think only of what was happening now, but it was like trying to hold back the tide itself. Memory rolled forward, frothing past the breakwaters in his mind, an arctic current so cold it froze the marrow in his bones.

Some time during that endless night he had emerged from oblivion to feel the sand under his feet and the splintering wood and chipped paint at his back. He had no idea how long they had been at him, but it was very, very late, and he was hardly aware of anything any more but the pain that had undone him, smashed away all control, all reason, all sense. To his horror, though, he was still granted moments of clarity, each more terrifying than the last, just long enough to know how far he had fallen this time.

He realized he was no longer supporting his own weight. The way his back and shoulders ached, he probably hadn't been able to do so for hours. His arms were lashed at the wrist and elbow to the latticework behind him, and he hung forward, head down, the flimsy boards bending with his weight. He was under the deck of the beach house, and he could feel the cold rain at his back. A naked bulb swung to and fro, suspended by an orange electrical cord a few feet away. He wasn't alone, but there were far fewer than had been watching him earlier. The rest had grown bored with a spectacle that had lasted for so many hours.

One face remained. The one who didn't get bored with Jim's pain. The one probably responsible for Jim's living the night through at all, though Jim was hard pressed to feel gratitude. He was very close to Jim, as he had been almost all evening. Watching him, and waiting. His hands were soft and gentle, and he touched Jim sparingly with them. He was touching Jim now. He cupped Jim's chin and lifted his head, forcing Jim to look into his flat brown eyes from a distance of inches.

Jim could smell his own burnt flesh, but by this point the drag across his shoulders hurt almost as badly as the fiery marks across his chest and stomach. It was all beginning to slip together into an undifferentiated whole. Even things that shouldn't hurt were becoming painful. He could feel the thread that stitched his belt loops to his jeans, the elastic in his boxers, and the sharp, square corners of the sand grains under his feet, and he was desperately afraid he knew where it was going to end.

He had to concentrate, he had to remember the things Blair had told him, but oh god help him, he was so tired. The madness of unending agony was close, reflected in those flat brown eyes watching him with such patient hunger.

_Please, Blair,_ he thought. _Please, I need you now._

 

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	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The gulls were getting louder_

_Please, Chief, help me._

 

"You planning to take all night with him?" The voice was close, and Jim started, terrified he might have called for Blair out loud.

Metal snapped, and tore from metal, and the new smell of beer mingled with those of sweat and wet sand and the sea. The man with the flat brown eyes spoke quietly, his gaze never leaving Jim's face. "The boat won't be here till morning. I've got time."

The other man muttered something, and Jim heard his footsteps moving away, the sand crunching and sliding under his boots. Jim tried not to listen to that sound, or to the fizzing of the carbonation in the beer can, or to the heartbeats all around him, the breathing, the movement. The world had become too loud to shut out a while ago, and Jim hung against the ropes, waiting for it to take him completely.

When the other man was gone, the one with the flat brown eyes said, "I've got a question for you." His breath puffed in Jim's face, reeking of cumin seeds and stale tobacco. He was touching Jim, fingertips smearing little circles in the sweat that poured like blood down Jim's face. Then he reached up and laid his hand on Jim's forehead, solicitous as a mother checking her infant's fever, and Jim felt the dissolution coming again, even before the pain. Everything was pain, even that soft touch. Especially that.

He whispered to Jim, his voice husky with arousal. "You keep calling for him, but do you really want him to see you like this?"

_Oh, no,_ Jim thought. _Please._

A whisker-stubbled cheek touched his own. The soft voice spoke in his ear, not even whispering now, just a breath. "Who's Blair?"

Jim surged against his bonds. Boards creaked and splintered, and the man with the flat brown eyes smiled at his fight, then drew away. Jim tried to brace himself even though he knew it did no good. _Blair, I'm sorry,_ he thought, and then he heard the buzz an instant before the fire leapt through his belly, broke across his mind, and shattered everything.

"Jim."

Blair's voice was so close. Jim opened his eyes fast, and saw hazy daylight through dirty car windows. Sandburg was still in his arms, still holding him tight as well. "Jim, hush, it's all right, it's all right, I've got you, you're safe now." An endless litany, probably because he wasn't sure he could make Jim hear him. Blair's tears had run down the side of Jim's neck and left wet streaks on his chest. Those were Blair's hands touching his face now, tender with love, not corruption. "Jim, it's all right, we're almost home now. We're so close."

Jim shuddered. He drew away from Blair's embrace, and Blair, after a shocked instant, let him do it. But Jim reached at the same time for Blair's hand and pulled it back, curling the shorter, more square fingers under his own, then tucking his hand and Blair's together against his throat, under his chin. "Chief," he rasped, cursing himself because he could not make his voice any steadier than it was. "We have to go right now, this minute. Get the car started and let's go."

"OK," Blair tenderly. "All right. We're going. As long as you're all right, because if you need to wait another minute or two, really, there's no hurry by this point, is there?" He opened his free arm, welcoming Jim back if Jim needed him.

He did. There was nothing Jim needed more than to let himself sink into that embrace, bury his head against Blair's shoulder, taste his mouth, accept his love. "Shut the car door and drive," he growled, desperation harshening his tone.

Blair didn't flinch, but his tear-reddened eyes widened. "What is it, man? What's wrong?"

The harshness was impossible to sustain with Blair's hand in his, warm and gentle. "He knows you," Jim confessed in despair. "I told him your name. I didn't mean to. I didn't realize what I was doing --" His voice broke. The interior of the car was creeping up on him again. Latex, sugar syrup, decomposing vinyl. Though Blair was physically near, Jim felt as though he were receding from his friend at terrific, terrifying speeds. He had to hold Blair, he had to keep him close or he would be lost, but his own pain didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore but getting Sandburg away. Far enough away the man with the flat brown eyes wouldn't ever touch Blair, because Jim knew that was the one thing he could not survive.

But damn him, Blair wasn't driving. He was just sitting there, staring at Jim with such pity and sorrow Jim could hardly bear to meet his gaze.

"It's all right, Jim," he said in his choked voice. "I know what you did, I think, and believe me, it's not because you were weak. It's because you're so strong. And because you needed me. And I should have been there for you. I told you you could count on me, and I wasn't there."

It made no sense to Jim, as if the words weren't words, but the sound of the gulls he could hear faintly, growing slowly louder as if they were surrounding the car to take him back out to the surf. How could he have been strong, when he knew he had screamed at the agony? How could it be Blair's fault that in a matter of a few hours, all of Jim's will had not only been broken but destroyed entirely?

"No," he said slowly, his brow creasing in puzzlement. That wasn't what was important anyway, and the thought of being broken gave it back to him in a rush. If they had done that to him, they could do it to Blair as well. And Blair was so much stronger than Jim, in every way that mattered. It would take longer to break him, but they would do it, and Jim wouldn't be able to stop it. He wouldn't be able to do anything but lie there, because he would fight until he was beaten to the ground, but they would do it, and he would have to know that once again he hadn't been strong enough.

And like last night, they wouldn't let him die when he needed to.

His fingers tightened on Blair's hand, pressing it hard against the pulse point at the base of his own throat. Blair's body, tied as his had been... the ache in his wrists and ankles was suddenly there again, like shackles of heated steel. "Drive," he said hoarsely. "Please."

Blair nodded then, and Jim kept his eyes open with fierce determination, afraid to close them and see that image of Blair's head hanging forward, as his own had done at the end. Even when the squealing of the rusted, bent door hinges shot through his fragile control, he kept his eyes on Blair, as if that could substitute for the touch of him.

"Shh, Jim, I'm sorry, it'll be all right, we'll be moving in a second." Blair's voice was low and calm, soothing. The shiver in it was only because he was cold, not because he had screamed for mercy, for Jim, for death. Jim shuddered and held tighter to his hand, afraid it wouldn't be enough. The gulls were getting louder.

With his left hand, Blair cranked down the window, cursing as it stuck partway down before finally moving again, then he leaned far enough away to reach out through it and pull the keys from the outside of the door where he'd left them dangling in his haste.

It was awkward starting the car left-handed, but Blair did it without even an experimental tug on the hand Jim kept in his desperate grip. The starter ground metal on metal, and Jim groaned a sound that was nearly the same. It took two tries to get the engine started, and Blair was shaking when it finally caught, nearly as badly as Jim was. He paused, letting the engine idle with rough, uneven strokes that made the whole chassis vibrate, and turned toward Jim again, reaching for him, knowing he was needed. "OK," Blair said quietly. Without ever really letting go of Jim's hand he slid his palm around to the back of Jim's, then stroked the length of his trembling forearm, careful of the gritty sand, but still touching as much as he could with his open palm. He hardly touched the abrasions at Jim's elbow, but to make up for skipping over them and losing some contact, he laid his hand more firmly on the biceps, trembling and rock hard with strain. Then to the shoulder and the back of Jim's neck. He put his hand there at the crook of Jim's neck and shoulder and said, "Here, there's room, isn't there? You can lie down and rest your head on my leg, and I'll get us away from here."

Jim looked at him for a moment, then allowed Blair to draw him down. "That's right," Blair whispered encouragingly as Jim pulled his long legs up onto the seat, curled almost into a fetal position in order to fit, his bare feet flat against the torn padding on the door, and his cheek resting on Blair's thigh.

Blair's jeans were wet, gritty with sand, and smelling of the sea. But they were warm from the heat of Sandburg's body, and the smell of the ocean was the faintest afterthought to Blair's self. "Just hold on to me, Jim. We're on our way." He let his hand rest on Jim's head for a moment, then leaned to the side so he could lay his forearm on Jim's side, his hand spread wide over the point of Jim's broad shoulder. Jim felt him twist awkwardly as he reached over for the emergency brake, but he didn't raise his hand from Jim's shoulder.

Jim tried to huddle closer. He pushed the back of his head against Blair's stomach, and wrapped his hand around Blair's calf, feeling the muscle tense slightly as he put his foot on the accelerator. The rear tires spun in the sand for a moment, a spitting, grinding noise that seemed to go right through Jim. He turned his head, pressing his face against Blair's thigh as the car bumped up the rest of the way onto the asphalt.

Blair's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Told you, man," he said in quiet triumph. "Home stretch now, Jim. You did it." His hand moved gently down Jim's arm. "You did it."

The roar of tires on the asphalt filled Jim's head, and the sensation of growing speed threatened to whirl everything away from him. He tried not to moan out loud, trying to feel only Blair, to hear only the sound of his voice. He told himself, desperately, that every second of motion took them further away from the place where he had been broken, and took Blair further from danger, and that was all that mattered. Not his own weakness, not his own sickness. He held on tighter, both hands clutching Blair's leg hard until Blair said softly, his hand gentle over Jim's head, "Easy, man. I got to drive. Do you need me to stop for a minute?"

"No!" Jim groaned angrily. "No," he said again, more gently, his eyes closed, his forehead pressed to Blair's thigh. "Whatever happens, keep going. Chief -- " he heard the panic and anger coming back into his voice, and he willed them away. He had to make Sandburg hear him. "Chief, you'll keep going, no matter what. Promise me."

"Hey," Blair said, quietly, tenderly. "Hey, Jim, we're going together. It's gonna be all right."

He didn't have the strength to argue. "Blair," he whispered brokenly. "Please."

 

* * *

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It was the end of Jim's life_

Blair's hand stilled on his head. His palm was gentle over Jim's ear, muffling the scream of the wind through the badly fitting windows, and Jim heard Blair's voice echo slightly in the cup of his hand. "We're gonna finish this together, Jim. I'll be as strong as I have to be and do whatever I have to do. That's all I can promise. I can't give you anything more. So it's just gonna have to be enough, OK?" Blair shuddered, nearly laughing. "Hey, and after all that, I almost forgot the heater."

He lifted his hand from Jim's head, and Jim couldn't help the moan that escaped him. Instantly Blair's hand was back, tenderly stroking his head, across his neck and shoulders, gentle and firm. "I'm sorry," Blair said in a soft, sad voice. "I'm so sorry. You just have to bear with me. Tell me when I do something wrong. I don't know why the simple stuff is so hard for me, but it is. Always that way, isn't it? I guess you've figured that out by now."

Blair was shaking with cold. Jim could hear it in his voice, feel it in his body. He gathered himself, holding Blair tight as he could from his awkward position, and tried to make himself sound exasperated. "Chief, for heaven's sake," he whispered. "We've been waiting for this all night. Turn on the heat."

"Aw, Jim --" Blair started, and didn't finish whatever he was going to say. Instead he squeezed Jim's shoulder in reassurance and promise and whispered, "Just a sec here, that's all."

Jim nodded against Blair's leg, wet denim and sand burning his face. Blair lifted his hand and Jim heard him fumbling blindly across the dash panel, then a stunning blast of cold, reeking air slammed into them. Jim didn't scream, but he couldn't stop the violent flinch, the instinctual, desperate attempt to burrow closer to Blair.

Blair screamed for both of them, a harsh, heartbroken cry. The air stopped instantly, and the whole car began moving strangely. Jim could feel the drag to one side, the sudden slowing. He didn't realize what Blair was doing until he felt the wheels bump onto the shoulder. Then they were stopped, and Blair was curled over him, trying to hold him.

Jim hated himself for his weakness, but for a few moments he allowed it. Blair's arms encircled his waist, hands spread wide across Jim's stomach. Blair's cheek rested against the small of his back, and the breath of his voice stirred the fine hair over his spine. "Shhh, Jim. Shhhh. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

No, they couldn't stop. Blair had to keep going. They had to keep running, because the man with the flat brown eyes knew Blair's name.

The horror of that shook Jim to his very core. The night had begun with Jim's name.

 

* * *

"Jim Ellison. He's a cop."

It was the end of Jim's life. For an instant everything was silent and still. Everything except the fan overhead. The motor hummed, blades turning slowly, dragging in a breeze that was heavy with moisture, thick with the smell of the rain and salt and sea.

Then they fell on Jim, clumsy in their fury. They cursed him and hit him with their fists, shoving guns hard against his temple or his throat when he tried to fight back. When he hung almost limp in their arms, dazed from the beating, they dragged him out of the house onto the beach, and Jim thought they were going to shoot him there in the sand. He struggled, but something smashed hard into the back of his neck, and a painful red flash exploded behind his eyes. He remembered his weakness, remembered falling to his knees in the sand. He had still been fighting, though he had known it was useless. There were so many of them, and they were going to kill him whether he fought them or not.

_Please, Simon,_ he had thought. _Whatever you do, please don't let Blair see this._

But they hadn't killed him then after all. Rough hands grabbed at him, trying to pull him back to his feet. Jim couldn't stand, so they simply dragged him around to the other side of the house, and there they tied him to the latticework under the deck. He remembered their nervous laughter, the laughter of men who are a little bit frightened, and a little bit ashamed, and at the time he had not understood. He lifted his head and saw the brown-eyed man standing close. Jim had hardly noticed him before, but he recognized the obscene thing he held in his right hand.

"Where'd you learn to make that?" Jim asked hoarsely. Speaking out loud helped, and he was glad they hadn't gagged him. "School of the Americas? So that would be my tax dollars at work?"

The man only smiled a little, lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes, and didn't answer.

"What's someone like you doing back in this country anyway? Employment opportunities a little thin since Pinochet retired?"

The brown-eyed man shrugged, still smiling, then handed his device to one of the others who were standing nearby. He wrapped both his fists in Jim's t-shirt, and with a sudden, violent effort, ripped Jim's shirt from collar to hem. Then he lifted his hands, palms out, and smiled more broadly. It was a silly, theatrical gesture. Jim should have laughed, but he couldn't quite manage that much. The back of his neck hurt, as well as his ribs, and his arms where the ropes were digging in.

The pathetic part was, he had thought he knew how much worse it was going to get.

He closed his eyes and reached for the memory of Blair's voice. It was time to dial it down, shut the world out, use the things Blair had given two years of his life to teach him. There was nothing to stay aware for, and he wondered if it would be any comfort to Blair to know he had made the end a little easier for his friend.

He heard the sound the crude device made, a faint click, and then an even softer humming. He caught a whiff of ozone, but he was already retreating so far, so fast, that he was not even particularly afraid anymore. He was listening to Blair's low, soft voice in his mind, and the only thing he regretted was being a little brusque with Blair the last time he had seen him. Sandburg hadn't been happy about this assignment at all, but there was no place for him in it, no way he could have accompanied Jim. "Chief," he had said, "The question is not up for debate. This will all be over and done with Thursday afternoon, Friday at the latest. Oh, and would you mind putting the check for the gas bill in the mail Friday morning if I haven't made it back yet? Knowing the Feds, I'll still be debriefing this time next year."

Thank god Blair had stayed away. The memory of all the times Blair had disobeyed and followed anyway rose up suddenly. Even worse, all the times Jim had allowed him to follow into something far too dangerous, far too desperate. It could have happened this time, so easily.

And maybe that was why his retreat didn't work. Instead of calming himself with the memory of Blair's voice, he was trembling at the thought of Blair here now, at his side or in his place. That was the very instant when the first, feather-soft stroke touched his bared chest.

The shock tore through everything he was and left him utterly bereft. He convulsed again and again, trying to curl over into himself and being held mercilessly upright by the ropes, inhuman sounds pouring from his throat. His mind was laid bare, every secret thought cracked wide open, exposed to the pitiless view of anyone who cared to see. There was no self anymore, no Jim Ellison at all. Just a hurting creature tied to a splintering wall, no control left, no possibility of holding his senses at bay. The entire universe beat at him, a tidal wave of sensation far worse than the momentary electric shock. He thought he was dying, and he was glad, because he could not stand to live any longer.

But then, slowly, dreadfully, he found his way back. Bit by bit the waters receded, and millions of years later he was able to raise his head and look at the man who had hurt him, and notice that his brown eyes were flat as a recent corpse's.

The man was still smiling. "Let's do that again," he said.

 

* * *

He started from the memories to find Blair still whispering to him, still apologizing, and still trying to soothe him. Suddenly it wasn't enough. With a sob, Jim tried to sit up. Blair sat up too, his hands gentle on Jim's back and sides, helping him, asking him in a quiet, frightened voice what Jim needed. Jim couldn't answer with words, but he dragged Blair to him, locking his arms around Blair's back.

He was alive. Some innate part of him had kept fighting its way back to Sandburg even after mind and spirit had been burned away from him. Death had been so close to him tonight, intimate and cruel as a capricious lover, and Jim had survived anyway. Even when Jim had believed he wanted nothing any more except the oblivion of that cold embrace -- even when he had screamed for death, wept and begged for it -- even then he had never stopped needing Blair even more than he needed an end to the pain.

It became desperately important to Jim to be sure Blair knew that. Jim buried his face against Blair's neck and shoulder, heedless of the sand that abraded him and the reek of saltwater, groping past all the things that hurt him to find such warmth, even though Blair trembled against him. "Chief," he said, feeling his breath puff hot against Blair's throat. "I had to find you."

Blair flinched violently, and his arms tightened around Jim's shoulders. "I know," he said. "I know, Jim. I saw you." His hands spread wide against Jim's back. "Here," he whispered. "You're so strong, but you need me, too. It sounds crazy, but I think that's why you're the man you are." He drew a shuddering breath. "Jim, you shouldn't have been alone."

Jim relaxed a little, letting more of the weight of his head rest on Blair's shoulder. "But I'm not alone." His voice was steadier than it had been, strengthened by his certainty. "I never was."

Blair made an inarticulate sound, less than a moan. His hands were restless on Jim's back, and Jim could feel how Blair's desire to be gentle fought with his need to touch Jim over and over again. One hand was spread wide against the small of Jim's back, but the other touched his shoulders, his upper back, the base of his skull, finally running fingers carefully through his hair. Jim felt every follicle stirring. It was a sensation so close to pain that he bit his lip to keep from crying out. But it was such rich affirmation of Blair's love that he found himself pressing his head back against the contact, hungry for more.

Was that his own voice saying those words? So greedy, so needful. "Blair, please."

"I know," Blair whispered. He released Jim for a moment, and at that, Jim almost did cry out. Then Blair's hands returned, cupping his jaw carefully, and easing Jim back just enough to look into his eyes. "Anything, Jim. Anything you want from me. Anything you need."

 

* * *

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Blair heard the surrender in his voice_

"I know," Jim whispered. A fine dusting of sand lay over Blair's right cheekbone, glimmering in the morning sun. Jim lifted his hand and carefully brushed it away. Blair held himself perfectly still, love and hope shining in his eyes. Jim felt his own heart fill with hope as well. Not knowing entirely what it meant anymore, except that it had been life to both of them, he touched two fingers to the center of Blair's brow. Blair drew a deep breath, but otherwise didn't move.

Carefully, slowly, touching Blair only with the pads of his fingers, Jim traced the lines he remembered so clearly he could almost see them. He **could** see them. With his eyes half-closed, gazing at Blair through the shadow of his own eyelashes, he could discern the fine traceries yet. Lines of power and strength, redder than blood. It didn't matter that his hand had shaken so badly when he drew them out there on the beach. The lines followed the planes and angles of Blair's face with a pure symmetry of purpose despite the artist's trembling hand.

Jim followed every line with his fingers, drawing them slowly across Blair's features, imprinting the memory with the sensuality of touch. He suspected he would no longer be able to see them once he was healed, and he wanted to be sure he remembered. Blair held still for him, wide eyed, panting a little with the cold and the shock of everything he had been through during the endless night. When he was finished, he lay his hand across Blair's face, fingers spread wide, feeling the delicate flutter of his eyelashes, the trembling of his lips. "I won't forget," he promised Blair.

The tenderness of Jim's hand moving over his face was almost more than Blair could stand. It frightened him to realize how clearly Jim seemed to remember what Blair -- what both of them -- had done out there on the beach. Blair had acted out of desperation and fear, and now that the first, most terrible crisis was past, he wondered if he had had any right to expose Jim to such powerful visions, to bind their souls so irrevocably. For chrissakes, Blair thought, he had never even believed he had a soul before tonight.

He realized then that he had closed his eyes, as though afraid of seeing Jim, and so he looked up again to meet Jim's intense gaze. The pale blue eyes were squinting a little in the light, faint creases showing on Jim's forehead and around the corners of his eyes. Blair's hands still cradled Jim's face. He could feel Jim swallowing, and the way his jaw clenched a little, the muscles knotting under the palms of Blair's hands, then easing again.

Jim's hand was touching Blair's face as well, resting lightly against his cheek. No, Blair thought, he still didn't know whether he had a soul -- whether an ineffable something lived on after the body died. And it didn't matter now any more than it ever had. All that mattered was Jim beside him, alive, and willing to fight his way back to wholeness. If either one of them possessed a soul, then it was manifest here, in the aching tenderness with which Jim caressed his face, in the love Blair felt for this good and gentle man who had been brave enough and strong enough not to die that night.

Blair caught Jim's hand gently and pulled it down, making himself look at the cruel abrasions that circled Jim's wrist. As the sun continued to rise and the last of the morning fog burned off, the marks on Jim's body were easier to see, mottled spots of color standing out on his flesh even under the coating of sand and salt. Blair felt the marks in his own heart, and he ached with the desire to take Jim's pain himself.

He couldn't do it. All he could do was offer his Jim his strength and his love. Could that possibly be enough? There was an unknowable depth of pain in Jim's eyes, the desperate hope barely showing beneath it, and the soft indentations of his own teeth along his lower lip marking his efforts at control. Blair felt a stab of uncertainty, suddenly unable to imagine how he would ever be capable of doing enough to take Jim's pain away. "Jim," he said softly. He had to ask. "Are you sure you don't want me to find a doctor? Really sure?"

Jim tried to pull his hand away, but Blair held on firmly, hating the way it was so easy for him to control Jim's action. "I don't know if I can help you enough," he explained quietly and sadly. "I'm not sure I know how."

He tugged once more, then sagged, all resistance gone. Jim dropped his head back down, tentatively laying his cheek along Blair's shoulder again, his hand lying loosely in Blair's grip. "Please, no," he breathed, but Blair heard the surrender in his voice.

His sentinel would do what Blair wanted. Whatever it was, however much it might hurt. The thought of hurting him more made Blair's stomach clench painfully, and he carefully laid Jim's hand down, his own shaking a little with his reaction. "I won't hurt you, ever," he whispered, and stroked his palm over Jim's head where it lay on his shoulder, feeling it settle against him more surely. "Ever. Whatever you want, I'll do." He turned his head a little and gently kissed Jim's temple.

Jim's eyes closed, lashes scraping across Blair's skin, and he lifted his hand to touch Blair's side, cupping nearly the full span of the ribs with his widespread touch. Then he slid his grip slowly around the curve of Blair's body, across his back, drawing him closer as he embraced him. When he had fully encompassed Blair within his arms, he sighed a low, quiet sound that held both peace and need. Blair shivered once, and rested his cheek where his lips had just touched. His hand stilled on Jim's head, resting there, warm and reassuring.

"Turn on the heater," Jim said, his voice low and clear.

Blair tensed, the arm he had around Jim's shoulders going tighter with the memory of how badly the last try had hurt Jim. But Jim's hold on him was so solid, and the car had been running long enough for even its tired engine to warm up. He cradled Jim's head a little longer with his left hand, until he felt Jim's weak nod, then he let go and reached carefully for the control.

This time he turned the fan to low instead of high, and with a swift gesture, blocked the vent in the dash with his hand until he was sure the air coming out was warm instead of cold. It still smelled bad, though, as if something had crawled into the air conditioner and begun to mold some time ago. His nose wrinkled at it. Odd how he hadn't even noticed it the night before when he'd driven over for the first time. There was no way Jim could miss it. Blair knew by the way those long arms tightened around him, the silent press of Jim's face against his skin and the soft heat where the sentinel's breath concentrated on his neck. Cautiously Blair turned the fan up another notch, the incoming heat making him shiver again as he realized how cold he was. Jim was shivering too, shaking in short, sharp bursts. Blair turned the fan up another notch, then all the way to its highest setting. The inside of the windows in the back started to fog over.

Replacing his hand on the back of Jim's head, Blair waited patiently, ignoring his own shivering, holding close to the warmth where they touched. It seemed to him that Jim's trembling was as much from exhaustion as it was from cold, and he knew he was closer to his own limits than he had been in a very long time. The smell from the heater intensified briefly, then began to fade until it was no worse than if a pair of rather old, used gym socks had somehow gotten lodged in the system. Jim's nose pressed against his neck, and he shifted a little, tipping his head so the curve of his shoulder would fit better around the line of Jim's cheek and jaw.

Outside, the morning brightened and the sun began to shine through the windows at a low angle, glaring harshly off the dull paint on the car's hood. Blair squinted at the brightness, wishing he'd thought to bring his sunglasses. There had been no need for them the night before, and he'd never planned on being out on the beach all night. A quick reconnaissance, then back to his motel room to consider his options had been all he had intended.

All the windows had gone foggy, but the defroster was beginning to clear the windshield in little, disconnected oval shapes down at its base. The sound of the fan covered the sigh of Jim's breathing, but the steady pulse of warmth against Blair's neck was growing slower, more easy and regular, and he could feel some of the tension ebbing from the broad back he still had his right arm wrapped around so tightly.

As his jeans absorbed the heat, he grew increasingly aware of how soaked and sand-filled they were. Pockets of grit had accumulated along the creases in the material, holding enough water to cause an itchy, crawly sensation. There had been an advantage to being numb with cold he hadn't appreciated.

Jim moved, his hands shifting restlessly across Blair's back, his breath catching off its rhythm. The hot air from the vents blew across him like the dry wind from an empty desert, and while the warmth had felt briefly better than the eternal cold, before long it had melded with the heat lingering in the burn marks on his skin and the rope-scarred bands of pain around his wrists, elbows, and ankles. The salt-laden moisture warmed, and moved, and dug fresh, sharp claws into every pore. Against his side, a crack in the deteriorated vinyl seat etched a line of pain sharply as a razor pressed to the flesh. But in his arms, Blair was warmer, and not shivering so much, and so he held on silently.

Even with his eyes closed, shielded from the glare outside by the screen of hair as he nestled against Blair's neck, he could tell it was getting dangerously late. They could be seen, and the renewed fear washed through him, more powerful even than the hurt. No rest was worth the risk of being taken again, no easing of his own pain could be bought at the chance of letting any harm come to Blair.

 

* * *

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Surrounded entirely by Blair's living presence_

Even as Jim made the decision, his body betrayed him, arms tightening around Blair one last time, hands sliding across the smooth planes of his strong, lean back, finding courage in its lithe definition. He forced his next breath to be the one he spoke with. "We need to keep going."

"I know," Blair said, his voice calm and low, as if he could wait forever. "As soon as you want to we'll head out again." His hand rested on Jim's head, still warming and sheltering him even though there was no need to protect him from falling rain any longer.

Jim drew a deeper breath, every nerve protesting what he intended, but his mind overruled the instinct to avoid pain. All he had to do was imagine the consequences of staying in their vulnerable position too long. The man with the flat brown eyes finding them -- taking Blair and hurting him -- touching Blair the way he had touched Jim -- "We have to go," Jim said suddenly. "Now." He began to release Blair from his embrace, giving up Blair's touch with more reluctance than he would have lost his own life. He let his arms slide across, apart, until Blair was free of all but the weight of Jim resting against his chest.

Still Blair hadn't moved, his hand gently pinning Jim's face against his neck and shoulder. Only when Jim groaned, "Sandburg, **now,** " did Blair begin to slide himself back under the steering wheel. He still cradled Jim against him, and with the slow, careful patience of a tai chi exercise Blair helped him shift his weight so he ended up once again lying with his head pillowed on Blair's lap.

The creases in the heavy denim of his jeans were hard lines of pressure on Jim's cheek, and the sand caught in the weave of the fabric added its own little misery to all the rest of the world's burden of pain for him, but he ignored it. With his left arm crossed over his own chest and his right hand resting, clenched in a fist on Blair's leg, he kept his eyes closed and held himself unmoving. Even if the car were seen now, Jim wouldn't be, and they might hope to pass unnoticed.

Hot air blew across him, and he shivered. Blair shifted the car into gear and wrestled it back onto the road. As soon as the uneven bumping of their progress off the shoulder had ended, Blair dropped his right hand off the wheel, laying it on Jim's fist, gently pressing it flat and then lacing his fingers through Jim's. His arm held Jim tucked against him, and he drove with caution, keeping to the low end of the legal range and slowing well before he reached curves so there was no sudden need to jar Jim's rest by reaching for the brake.

Jim didn't know the coastal road that well, not this section of it so far from Cascade, but he could have mapped every foot of it they drove along. The sound of the ocean approached and receded, telling him of the dunes between the road and the water, the way the road wandered a few hundred yards from shore, then swung closer again as if dancing with its proximity.

Every crack in the pavement made the car bounce just slightly, and every blown bar of sand grabbed at the wheels, making Blair's stomach muscles tense as he pulled at the steering with his left hand. The ripples of adjustment in force and balance moved all the way through Blair's body, and his hold on Jim's hand would tighten slightly, then relax in reaction. Those shifting pressures meshed with the slight lift and tense of his thigh as he adjusted their speed. The whole harmony of movement around him gave Jim the momentary illusion he was surrounded entirely by Blair's living presence, being carried along safely within its encompassing boundaries. His grip tightened on Blair's hand and he drew it closer to his face, and rested the edge of his cheek over their entwined fingers.

"It's OK, Jim, we're almost there. It's not much, but I couldn't afford the nicer place in the middle of town. I guess that's just as well, now." For a second he lifted his left knee far enough to press on the steering wheel and hold their line of travel straight, and rested his freed hand on Jim's head before having to reach for the wheel again. "The nicer place never would have let us in looking like this. But this place I got, we'll fit right in."

The fleeting touch on his head was cool, a brief shield from the now stifling hot air being pumped out by the car's heater. Jim didn't complain. Blair was still cold - Jim could feel the small shivers running through him. Besides, Blair would have to let go of Jim's hand to turn off the heater. It wasn't worth it to Jim. He curled his free arm tighter against himself, and pressed his face against Blair's hand. The bruise at the corner of his mouth throbbed in protest at the contact, and he ignored that too.

Blair eased his foot off the gas and slowly began to brake. Though they were going so slowly the ponderous car was all but stopped before Blair started to turn the wheel, Jim's head rolled back on Blair's thigh as their direction changed. The hand Blair had laid over Jim's squeezed gently as the car came to a full stop, and Blair let out a long, deep sigh, as if he had been holding his breath for hours. Jim heard the key rattling out of the ignition, so close to his head he flinched a little, and did not open his eyes. "Chief," he whispered, pleading with him. "Blair, please. We've got to keep going."

Blair swallowed. The keys were placed on the dash with exaggerated care. "Jim, it's OK." He laid his other hand on Jim's shoulder. "We're here. Ocean Dunes Motor Court." Blair's voice sounded as if he were trying hard to smile. "Got to tell you, though, I'll be happy if it's a helluva a long time before either one of us sees another sand dune."

"Sandburg," Jim whispered. "Be **careful**."

"I am, I promise. I am." Blair's hand came up, the palm and fingertips smoothing over Jim's head again and again, slowly, gently. "There's no one else in the parking lot. The streets are empty. No one followed us. I watched the whole way. We're safe now." Jim felt Blair curling forward over him, and the brush of Blair's fingertips as gentle across his brow as a kiss. "You're safe now, Jim. You made it."

Blair didn't know how he expected Jim to react to that. He didn't know how he expected himself to react. Jim just lay there, shivering as the interior of the car began to cool, and Blair looked through the cracked windshield at the door to his room, only a few yards away. When he'd checked in twelve hours ago, the world had still been a sane place. Blair had been the irrational one, fretting over Jim, worried about being left out of something that might be unpredictably dangerous.

It had been such a short time ago he'd been telling himself he had finally gone over the edge, and that feeling transposed and overlaid the sensation of looking at himself, trying to be the only sane thing left to Jim in a world gone mad. He couldn't tell who was the crazy one any more, everything was so far out of control, beyond his experience or expectation. All at once the emotion was just too huge. It welled in his breast, hurting him like a fire burning too close, or a weight bearing down too hard. Blair couldn't understand it. They were here. They'd made it. For heaven's sake, they were safe at long last, so why was he suddenly on the verge of losing it? It didn't make any sense. He rolled his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. What the hell was the matter with him?

_Get Jim up,_ he told himself. _Get him inside. One step at a time, just like you've been doing all night long. This is no different. Just take it one little step at a time._

But the mantra didn't seem to work anymore. Blair had lost the mysterious center of strength that had sustained him for so long, and he couldn't hold back the terrible pictures anymore. All he could see was Jim's torment, his beloved friend surrounded by jeering strangers, his body tied with coarse ropes. Screaming Blair's name as he was hurt over and over again, until there was nothing left but the agony itself.

And the shame of having cried aloud.

Blair felt the weight of Jim's head on his thigh, and he opened his eyes again, hoping the sunlight would burn away the unbearable visions. His eyes were hot and tearless, and he looked again through the cracked windshield at the door to their room. And just sat there, beginning to shake. _Ah, no,_ he thought, as the trembling got worse. _No, no, no, not now._ Not when they were so close.

It didn't matter what he told himself. He looked down at Jim, at the curve of his shoulder, Jim's hand where his fingers still interlaced with Blair's, the angry red bruises along his ribs Blair had not noticed before.

_I ought to be used to this by now,_ he thought, as the compassion and grief washed through him in a unbearable wave. But he wasn't getting used to it. Every revelation hurt worse than the preceding ones, and he felt like he wasn't strong enough for it, not any more, not after so much. Maybe he never had been. _Jim, I'm sorry,_ he thought again, as he had thought so many times in the night, and lifted his hand from Jim's head, pulling the other loose from the feebly desperate grip that held it. He was shaking so hard it was making him clumsy. He didn't even trust himself to touch Jim any more.

 

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	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Blair decided he would not speak again_

Blair heard Jim's frightened cry at the loss of contact, and Blair cried out too, a miserable echo of Jim's pain and fear. He clamped both hands down on the steering wheel and held on with all his might. He would just push it all away, damn it. _Jim needs you, man. You need him. Now stop screwing around and **help** him._

It didn't work at all, as badly as he wanted it to. Instead of taking Jim in his arms and gently pulling him up, whispering to him that they were safe, and in no time at all they would be warm and dry too, and most importantly, ah god, Jim, there would be no more pain -- Instead of doing any of the things he wanted, he just kept sitting there, shuddering with helpless reaction. Hoarse, angry sounds came from his mouth, dry sobs that seemed to take the last of his waning strength with them.

Blair hated himself then, he hated his weakness, but his anger only made him weaker still. He felt Jim moving, but he couldn't turn his head to see. He couldn't do anything but sit there, locked rigid with grief, too lost in Jim's pain as well as his own to find his way out again.

Jim's head pressed hard against his thigh, then against his stomach. Springs squeaked in sullen protest as Jim slowly and painfully shifted his weight on the bench seat, moving with the stiffness of obvious agony. Blair was finally able to gasp angrily between the sobs, "I'm OK, Jim, I'm OK. Just -- need a minute -- here."

Jim didn't stop. His hand reached Blair's thigh, bearing down heavily, trembling with strain as he tried to push himself up. His head was against Blair's sternum, and when Blair finally looked down at him, panting in the fruitless effort to calm himself, he saw Jim had managed to get his legs pulled under himself on the seat, and was almost kneeling beside him. "Jim," Blair moaned, "please lie still."

He let go of the steering wheel at last, patting awkwardly at Jim's shoulders and then drawing back, afraid to touch him more, badly as he was still shaking. "Jim, please," he begged, furious with himself. The one thing Jim needed from him was his touch, and he couldn't even give Jim that. "Please don't try to move."

Instead, Jim's hand came up and spread against Blair's chest, leaning harder than ever against his friend's solidity once he was no longer supporting himself with both hands. Breathing noisily with the effort, he reached Blair's shoulder and latched on, using his grip there to drag himself up until he was face to face with Blair at last.

Helpless in his grief, Blair looked into Jim's sad blue eyes from such a close distance and found it still hurt, as much as it ever had. The pain would never go away. He would carry it the rest of his life, long after the marks on Jim's face and body were gone. Blair would always remember that Jim had suffered alone, and it would always hurt, just like this. And he did not know how he could bear it.

"Jim --" he breathed, shaking with exhaustion and grief, and then broke off because he couldn't go on. He couldn't tell Jim the truth, but Jim was watching him carefully, waiting for him to speak. He was breathing hard with the effort of kneeling beside him, getting as close as he could to Blair with the last of his strength. His hands were heavy on Blair's shoulders, his forearms flat across Blair's chest and pressing down a little too hard.

Jim waited, and Blair panicked for the first time that night. "It's OK," he lied. "Jim, we made it."

Jim flinched from the lie as if from a blow, and Blair cried out, heartsick, "I'm sorry! Oh, Jim, please, I'm sorry." _Hold him and tell him the truth, Sandburg, that's all you have to do now, and you can't even manage that much anymore, can you?_

_Oh, Jim,_ he mourned, though he didn't speak the words out loud. _I want to take your pain away. I don't want you to hurt anymore, and I'm not strong enough for that. I'm not strong enough, and I wouldn't know how to do it, even if I had the strength._

_Please help me, Jim. Please come back to me._

As if he had spoken out loud, Jim drew closer, his bruised face grave. Kneeling up on the seat until his head was a little above Blair's, he pulled Blair into his embrace carefully, moving one hand to the back of Blair's head to press his forehead gently against his own cheek when Blair hesitated.

Blair drew a harsh breath, but he couldn't get the first word out, even though he needed absolution so desperately. He didn't have the right to ask, not now, not while Jim was still hurting so badly. He shook as Jim eased the other arm around his shoulders and drew him forward, until his back was no longer against the seat, and he was resting all his weight against Jim's chest. Blair still hadn't managed to speak, and part of his soul wondered if he ever would again. Mute at a time like this -- what good was having a voice at all?

Then Jim spoke for him. "Chief," he murmured in a voice so soft and low Blair imagined he could feel his very bones thrumming from the vibration. "Chief," he said again, more softly. Blair shook helplessly in his arms. He wanted to hold Jim too, he needed to so badly, but he was afraid. In the dingy motel's parking lot, the sun warming the interior of the car and revealing every hurt on Jim's body to Blair's miserable gaze, it seemed to Blair he did not have the right.

"You listen to me, Chief," Jim rasped out, his voice slow and ruined.

"Hush, Jim," Blair pleaded, shaking with the effort of speaking gently through his emotions. "Don't try to talk."

"But I want you to know this," he insisted with a determination that sounded so much like Jim, save for the thread of fragility woven through it.

"All right," Blair whispered. "Easy, you've got me." He gently put his trembling hands on Jim's back. He couldn't hold Jim, he was still shaking too hard, but this at least he could do. "I'm listening, Jim."

"I'm glad," Jim moaned, and the arm around Blair's shoulders tightened.

Blair felt Jim's fist clench gently at the back of his head for a moment and then open again. "I understand," Blair said, not understanding at all. He wondered if he were crying again. He didn't know. His throat ached and his eyes stung as badly as they had before. "I'm sorry." It came out like a whimper. "Jim, I'm trying."

"All worth it," Jim said, and Blair knew he must have misunderstood the words.

"Let's get you inside," he told Jim desperately. "You've got to work with me here. I'm not doing such a great job on my own."

Both of Jim's hands moved slowly, an infinite effort until they rested on his shoulders again, and Jim pulled back a little so he could look into Blair's face. When Blair closed his eyes, Jim touched the center of his forehead with his fingertips. When Blair's eyes flew open again, startled, Jim said in a low clear voice, "It was all worth it, Sandburg, to see this."

_No,_ Blair screamed in his mind. _Jim, don't tell me this. Nothing is worth your pain. Nothing._ He didn't speak a word though. He only stared at Jim, his grief so profound it was almost horror, and Jim looked calmly back at him. The hand touching Blair's forehead slipped down tenderly and caressed his face, then his throat, and Jim let his hand remain there, his palm warm over the ridges of Blair's voicebox. Blair felt the gentle pressure when he swallowed.

Jim put his other hand over Blair's heart, and then, as though the effort had been the last he could possibly make on his own, he rested, kneeling on the seat, his head bowed, breathing hard, his hands on Blair.

Blair didn't try to talk any more. He just waited, bleak with despair, his hands resting lightly on Jim's back. He had slipped away so far, so fast. It had taken no time at all to feel he was a million miles away from everything, even from Jim. If it helped Jim to touch him this way then he would leave something of himself here, this warm husk Jim seemed to need so badly. But nothing else was of any use to anyone, least of all to himself. "C'mon, Jim," he said in a voice that droned as flatly in his own head as a housefly in his bedroom at night. That lonely, quiet, meaningless buzz that kept you from all rest, all peace, all sleep. Blair decided he would not speak again.

So Jim spoke instead. "You gave me this, Blair." His hands were still warm on Blair's throat and chest, and he looked at Blair intently, confident Blair would understand.

Blair shut his eyes again. He was so far away he didn't care about anything any more, he honestly didn't, but he couldn't stand to see Jim's face.

"Sandburg," Jim said. His voice was only a hoarse whisper. "They took everything from me."

Blair's eyes flew open. How could he be hurting like this? Everything was all shut down. He had put it all away in a locked file drawer on a dark little shelf in an unused corner of his mind's attic. Nothing could hurt him any more.

Nothing except Jim telling him, relentlessly, "I asked him to kill me. I begged him to do it."

"Damn you, Jim!" Blair shouted out loud, and Jim flinched sharply from the impact, but he kept his hands where they were, and Blair's next words were quieter, but just as furious. "How dare you? How **dare** you? Don't you know how bad I need you?" Then he wasn't talking anymore, he was sobbing with fury and grief, open and hopeless and violent and so desperate for Jim that he wrapped his arms around him without thinking about the sand and grit or anything but the need to hold him.

Jim's arms were around him too, and he was saying, whether to himself or to Blair, Blair didn't know, and it didn't matter, "I saw it on the beach. You cut out your own soul, and you gave me back more than they took."

Blair held on tighter, rocking a little, dazed as he had been on the beach.

"Shhh," Jim whispered, his voice as compassionate as if Blair had been the one they hurt. "Easy, Chief."

"I love you, Jim," Blair said, and it was so right and easy to say that he said it again and again. "I love you so much."

"I know," Jim said, and all at once he wasn't supporting Blair any more, he was leaning hard against him, eyes closed, panting with exhaustion, sides heaving. His head dropped, and even the arms around Blair's back began to fall loosely, sliding down, trapped sand grating on bare skin. "I know," he whispered again. He gave a shaky breath of air that gusted warmly over Blair's shoulder. "Took my heart without asking practically the day we met, Chief. Or maybe you had it before we even met. I've never been whole without you."

"Jim," Blair said, eyes open wide in awe, blinking against the morning sunlight.

"I have you here, now," Jim whispered. His hand moved between them, pushing them a little apart, touching Blair's chest and his own. He took a long, deep breath that left him in a sigh. "You won't let me be alone again."

"Never," Blair promised violently. "Never. Never. Oh, Jim."

Jim took another deep breath. Blair could feel his head nodding heavily against him. The hand on his chest dropped. Jim patted his side weakly, and then it seemed to Blair as though Jim simply gave way, something deep and vital in him surrendering completely. All his life and strength were given to Blair's keeping with that last quiet breath.

 

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	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His eyes were open, clear, their brilliant blue more achingly bright than the morning sky overhead_

It was the strangest thing, Blair thought, cradling Jim's shaking body against his own. Only moments ago he had been too lost even to carry the weight of his own heart. Now he knew he had enough strength for both of them, for however long it took. Even if it took rest of their lives. "I've got you, Jim." He'd been saying that all night, but at last he knew what it meant. "Everything will be OK. I've got you."

Jim's head nodded again, barely more than a shift in position. His breathing was so shallow Blair couldn't feel the motion of it lifting against his chest, only the faint warmth of an exhalation drifting across his shoulder.

"So, man," Blair whispered, "Next step, OK? Everything will be easy from here on out." He broke off and gave a sad little laugh. "Well, maybe not easy, but the worst is over, I promise. So what do you think -- you want to get out of the car on my side or yours?" He let himself laugh again, because he could feel the slight pressure of Jim's arms when he did, as though his laughter gave some kind of strength. "Whatever works best for you. What do you think?" He didn't wait for Jim to answer. "Tell you what. We're closer to my side, so let's try it this way. Now, I'm gonna let you go a little bit, just so I can open the door. All right? I'm right here, Jim. Not going anywhere. We've pretty much established that by now, haven't we? Just wanna be sure you don't forget."

When he lifted his left arm from around Jim's shoulders, he felt the tiny shudder, and the way Jim tried to press even closer, exhausted as he was. "Shh," he whispered, his lips brushing Jim's temple as he felt blindly beside himself for the door handle. "I'm right here."

He pushed at the door handle, trying not to jostle Jim as he tripped the latch and got the heavy door barely cracked open. He wasn't entirely successful, and winced in sympathy at Jim's soft cry. Cold morning air filtered in slowly through the narrow gap and lifted goosebumps on both their arms.

"You're still with me, right?" His voice was almost as hoarse as Jim's. Probably all the saltwater he'd swallowed. _That, and sobbing half the night,_ he thought ruefully. "Sorry," he whispered roughly, not sure what he was apologizing for. "I need you to do something for me now, and it's not gonna be so easy, but it's the only way I can think of to do this. Can you turn around and put your feet on the floor? Then you can just scoot out after me, and we can get inside and finally get you that hot shower. What do you think? Can you do that for me?"

Jim tensed in his arms for a moment, and Blair wondered what he would do if Jim couldn't keep going after all, at least long enough to get in the room. Blair would have to get help, and the thought of strangers' hands on Jim was more than he could stand. He knew it would be more than Jim could stand.

"C'mon, man," he asked tenderly. "I need you to do this. I know it's too much to ask, but I'm asking anyway. Just take it a little at a time. Can you sit up some more? Here, maybe I can help." He touched Jim's face, giving gentle reassurance of his presence, and then he pushed carefully on Jim's shoulders, easing him back.

Jim's eyes were closed tight, but he let Blair move him, turning painfully, easing his legs out from under himself. His arms slid away from Blair reluctantly, until he was only holding on to him by a trembling grip on his shoulders. His head was bowed and his whole back curved with weariness and pain, but his face was composed in silent, calm trust and his eyes stayed closed as Blair slowly edged far enough away to push the car's door open.

The sounds outside poured in along with fresh air, and Jim's hold on him tightened for a heartbeat before relaxing again, consciously letting him go. Letting everything go. He sagged further, beginning to curl into himself. "Aww, no," Blair said desperately, "Jim, don't give up now. We're so close." He reached over and rested his hand on Jim's head, stroking the top of it with careful gentleness. Jim shivered, and he tipped his head back a little toward the touch, his mouth opening briefly in an unspoken plea.

Keeping that contact, Blair slowly slid his legs out of the car, then edged his butt over to the edge of the seat. With the faintest of pressure on Jim's head, he coaxed him forward by tiny increments, infinitely patient. Jim moved for him, dragging himself sideways, inch by painful fraction of an inch, his breathing growing hoarser and more labored as he struggled to do what Blair asked of him.

Through it all, Blair felt nothing but the vastness of his love for this man whose courage was so endless, who would do whatever Blair asked, even when he was driven beyond his limits. There was nothing Blair would not do in return, he knew it with all his heart, and felt only joy at the knowledge.

When at last Jim had crept all the way to the edge of the seat and could still reach Blair's shoulders where he knelt on the ground outside, Blair laid his palm against Jim's chest and left it there, letting him rest. Under Blair's knees, he could feel the way the cold concrete had been laid with a coarse, combed pattern, and the sharp ridges of the surface hurt even through his jeans. Though there was a damp chill in the air, the slanting rays of the morning sun were already hot on the side of his face. Blair squinted one eye shut against the glare. Still supporting Jim with one hand against his chest, Blair searched for the room key with his other hand, finally finding it in his back pocket, the only place the awkwardly large plastic tag had fit comfortably. He remembered that only after he found it again, his heart slowing from the panic of thinking he had lost it.

Jim swayed forward, pressing against the hand flat against his chest, leaning outward to where his balance depended on his hands on Blair's shoulders. "Careful," Blair murmured, and pressed back against Jim's chest, holding him in place. "Don't want you falling over here, OK? Just a minute." With his free hand, Blair carefully lifted Jim's left leg out of the car, pulling just enough to get Jim to rotate toward him.

As he set Jim's foot down on the pavement, he caught a glimpse of the cruel, reddened bruises marring his ankle. His breath caught in pain, realizing again he had not even begun to assess all of Jim's wounds. He bowed forward, resting his forehead against Jim's knee for a second, fighting to overcome the shaking anger and despair that moved through him. He tried holding his breath, but it didn't help, and the stinging in his eyes just kept getting worse. Jim's fingers tightened on his shoulders, and shifted, the smallest of comforting strokes. When Blair looked up, his eyes were too bright, his smile forced, but Jim's eyes were still closed, so the effort to look in control was wasted. Not that it would have fooled Jim anyway.

"Doing good, Jim," he said carefully, keeping his voice from breaking by pure force of will. "Other one, now." Jim shifted, and Blair guided his other leg out of the car and gently brought his foot to the ground. He was careful to keep his grip away from the narrow part of Jim's ankle where he knew there would be a set of marks to match the ones he had already seen. Injuries he would have to deal with soon, with no more to work with than the items in his own minimalist shaving kit, not even the first aid box that normally rode in the spare tire well of Jim's vehicle. _What am I going to do?_ he wondered, the black despair washing over him again. _I'm not prepared for this._

When he looked up at Jim, he knew his fear was showing clear and strong on his face. Jim would see it all as soon as he opened his eyes, and there was nothing Blair could do about it. Strong as he was with Jim's trust and love filling his breast like his own breaths, no strength could take away the sheer anguish he felt for what had been done to Jim. Every mark he saw on his friend's body brought the images to him, the awful guesswork pictures of the way those bruises and burns had been inflicted over the night.

He closed his eyes, trying to shut them out, to shut out the sight of the darkening area on Jim's cheek and jaw and the way his mouth was turned down with the effort to contain his hurt. Reaching up, he laid his left hand flat against Jim's chest next to the other, feeling the flinch and shiver Jim couldn't suppress, and the way he still leaned farther forward even in the face of that pain, putting more weight against Blair's touch. As the weight increased, Blair opened his eyes again, afraid Jim was passing out.

Jim was perfectly conscious. His eyes were open, clear, their brilliant blue more achingly bright than the morning sky overhead. He was reaching for Blair, reaching with his whole body, his eyes, the last dregs of his will, his hands tightening with terrible weakness but implacable determination, trying to draw him closer.

All of Blair responded, as unable to keep from reaching back and giving him that contact as he was unable to stop the blood from moving through his own veins, or the empathetic pain for Jim from curling cold and heavy through his gut. His hands slid across Jim's chest, gentle across those awful marks, around his ribs even as he rose himself, letting Jim's grasp on his shoulders raise him from the car. Jim flowed into his arms, and Blair enfolded him with all the care and resolve he felt, his embrace a vow to make everything right again.

The rounded point of Jim's chin weighing on his shoulder slowly got heavier, and the arms holding him were loosening. "No," he murmured, his hands shifting over the center of Jim's back as if he could find that vulnerable area and send strength back through it. "Not now. Not when we're so close." He edged backward a step, and Jim swayed with him, shuffling forward, an involuntary moan drawn from him at the cruelty of the sharply ridged concrete on his bare, injured feet.

The desire so intense it was a physical pain, Blair wished he could carry Jim, but it was no more possible than it had been any other time during the night, from that first struggle in the surf. All he could do was what he had done then without meaning to, what he had used all along without realizing it: his ability to give Jim enough of a reason to go on himself. He moved one hand away from Jim's back, up to cradle the back of his neck before shifting another step backward.

As Jim followed him helplessly, Blair trailed his hand forward, caressing the curved planes until his palm cupped Jim's cheek, the tense muscles in his jaw hard and trembling under Blair's fingers. As Jim pressed against that touch, Blair whispered, "Come on, Jim, you can do it. For me, man, just this once more."

 

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	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Rest, Jim. I'll be right here_

The morning sun was beating hot on his back, but the air still held the chill and the scents of the night and the fog. It all felt distant, much further away than the faint, warm pressure of Jim's nod against his hand, and the way Jim's arms shifted, bracing for the final effort. Each one promised to Jim as the last, yet there was always another labor waiting when he was done with what had been asked of him. Blair caught the inside of his lower lip between his teeth and held back the threatening tears. Instead he moved another step toward their goal. It occurred to him that if he let go of Jim with one hand, he could reach the top of the window and swing the car door shut.u

_To hell with the door._

Jim's head rose a little. "The car keys," he rasped.

Blair knew he shouldn't really have been surprised, but the simple request caught him unawares and it took a second to figure out what Jim meant. He had to bite harder on his lip against the tears, seeing the evidence of Jim coming back to him in such tiny ways. "Forget them," he said very gently. "Nobody is going to steal this bomb even if I leave the door wide open and the keys laying on the dash."

Jim shook his head, though the scope of the gesture was no more than a change in the pressure against Blair's hand. "At least close the door," he ordered, even as his weight shifted further onto Blair in a helpless attempt to lessen the pain of standing.

"You are impossible," Blair grumbled, holding him closer, his left hand shifting over the side of Jim's face in a caress. "It's going to make noise," he reminded Jim softly. "Can you tone down enough for it?" Losing the car to some local teenager would be far preferable to seeing the pain cross Jim's face at the shriek of the metal hinges.

Again the faint change in pressure, this time of an uncertain nod. Slowly, giving himself as much time as possible to feel the preliminary shivers of a collapse, Blair drew his right hand away from Jim's back and reached for the car's door frame. As he did, he turned his head and pressed his face against Jim's neck. The shivers that ran through Jim's body were the damped tremors of his need for more contact, subtly different from the shaking of his final loss of control. His arms tightened around Blair again, and he stretched his head forward, trying to tuck Blair into the curve of his neck.

Grabbing the top of the car door, Blair tensed, and as he pulled on the door with a single rippling heave of force, he simultaneously pressed his lips to the soft, hollow spot under the corner of Jim's jaw where the pulse moved with slow power close under the skin. The tired, rusted metal of the door swung with the creak he had expected, and the heavy panel slammed shut behind them with finality. The sound echoed loudly around the enclosed motor court, bouncing off the cinder block walls and blank, staring windows of the units.

But Jim didn't flinch away from it, or try to burrow into him this time. He held still and only moaned, a low sound that vibrated against Blair's lips where they touched Jim's throat. Then one hand clenched against Blair's back, and shook, all the muscles in Jim's forearm straining taut, before it relaxed, his palm spreading flat again over the ridge of a shoulder blade.

Blair let out his breath in relief. "Home free now," he whispered softly, the warmth of his voice trapped between them. Jim curled around it, managing somehow to both lean on him and enfold him with support at the same time. Blair's hand returned to the side of Jim's face, and he touched him with gentle fingertips. As if guiding him by touch, he stroked his fingers down and forward across Jim's cheek, taking a step backward at the same time. With a quiet sigh, Jim moved with him.

It was a short few feet to the door of his room, but they took their time crossing the distance. The sun rose slowly, the passing traffic on the highway growing busier as more trucks thundered by on the coastal road. Salt and sand on their skin rubbed where they touched, a stinging coat that grated Blair's skin until he felt raw and inside-out. It had to be far worse for Jim, yet the only sound to pass his lips was a low, sobbing groan at each step, and even that was bitten back until he trembled in Blair's arms with the containment of his agony.

The cold, rough surface of the badly painted door surprised Blair when his shoulders bumped against it, Jim's arms pushing harder against his lower back where they were laced. For a moment he wondered why Jim hadn't warned him they were so close, and then realized the sentinel had to have closed his eyes again, trusting him implicitly with their journey. "I'm sorry," he said softly, stilling his hand on Jim's face.

In answer, Jim only tightened his embrace fractionally, far beyond the ability to do more. Understanding all too well, Blair just nodded and, after a moment's rest, reached for the key. He managed to get it out of his back pocket and after a little blind fumbling, into the loose-fitting lock on the doorknob. It turned easily, admitting them over the threshold so suddenly they nearly fell through the door. Blair spared a half-second to pull the tattered "Do Not Disturb" placard off the back of the door and hang it on the knob outside, his left arm still locked around Jim's shoulders, keeping him close throughout.

He pushed the door shut very carefully, coccooning them in the quiet, dim, warm confines of the small room. For a cheesy, older motel, the walls were surprisingly solid, and the sound of the surf roaring along the shore a hundred yards behind the motor court was abruptly distanced to a muted background of faint white noise. It felt like they had come to the end of a very long trip, and he allowed himself a weary sigh of relief.

Then Jim began to fall.

 

* * *

The concrete had been so cold and sharp, Jim had believed getting inside would be a relief from the constant pain of his own weight on the soles of his feet. But there was no respite for him, and the dull chuff of the door shutting went unnoticed in his awful surprise. Every twisted polyester fiber of the ancient green shag carpet seemed to be digging its own separate needle-thin hole into his already torn skin. With a half-gasped moan, he tried to lean more of his weight on Blair, a hopeless attempt to relieve some of the cruel pressure. Blair leaned harder against him, using his own weight to counterbalance, but Blair's legs trembled and started to buckle, betrayed into failure by his exhaustion. Helplessly Blair sagged, a groan that answered Jim's pulled from his throat as they began to collapse.

For an instant Jim knew what falling to that carpet would be like, and the white flash of memory erased all thought of allowing it to happen. He locked his knees against his own weakness, knowing but not caring he no longer had the strength to stand on his own.

The few moments upright his last effort bought them weren't wasted by Blair. Pivoting and pulling Jim with the grace and unexpected strength of a dancer, he took him the few steps to the side of the first of the two beds. As Jim swayed and began to go down with all the inexorable finality of an avalanche, he felt Blair still guiding him, resisting the fall to cushion his landing. Blair's hold supported him so he ended up lying stretched out safely away from the edge of the bed, rather than in a helpless tangle of his own limbs.

"Aw, Jim. Oh man." Blair's weight was on the mattress behind him, and he was bending over Jim, a sandy tangle of hair brushing along Jim's neck as he leaned closer. "Please, just a little bit more, here, you think? I wanna get you cleaned up, out of these wet clothes."

But after the long depth of night spent on sand and rocks, the coarse, cheaply quilted cover over the poorly sprung mattress was too welcome a haven. Jim pressed back against Blair's warmth, feeling the final exhaustion claim him despite the sand that grated so painfully, the burning of the salt, the agony of his untreated wounds. "Please," he wanted to say. "Please, Chief, just let me rest for a moment."

Blair understood, even though Jim didn't say the words out loud. He stopped trying to coax Jim up again, and instead stretched out behind him, his arm wrapped carefully around Jim's chest, the side of his face pressed to Jim's back. "I've got a better idea," Blair told him, trying to sound conversational despite the rasp in his voice. "What do you say we just take one last break? 'Cause we made it. You did it, just like I knew you would. Everything's gonna be OK now."

His voice broke, and then amazingly, he made himself laugh a little. Jim felt the warm vibrations against his back. "I never doubted it, Jim. Never." His hand spread wide again, flattening over Jim's chest. Exhaustion was making Blair clumsy too, and his touch was rough, scraping sand across Jim's welted flesh. Jim felt his body's flinch, even though he tried hard to stop it.

"Oh," Blair moaned, a heartbroken sound. "Oh, Jim, I'm sorry."

He felt Blair's head turning, Blair's forehead pressed against his back. "We've got to get the sand washed off," Blair whispered, as much to himself as to Jim. "I can't stand hurting you like this."

Moving with agonizing slowness against the exhaustion and pain, Jim managed to catch Blair's hand and pull it up to his face. He felt Blair's pulse thrumming through his own hand, bone deep vibrations that gave him the strength to press Blair's hand to his mouth and whisper against the sandy warm palm trembling there, "Please."

Blair started a little, and he made a quiet sound, not quite a sob, before whispering against Jim's back, "Rest, Jim. I'll be right here." He was crying. Jim could hear it in his voice and, after a moment, he felt the slow, hot tears.

 

* * *

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The memories could still be read plainly, scrawled across his body_

_No,_ Jim thought miserably. _No more tears, not for my sake._ He wanted to turn and pull Blair into his arms, but all the reserves were long since used up, and he couldn't manage something even as necessary as that. Already he could feel himself beginning to drift, the pains of his body and the chaos of the outside world shuddering across the same abused nervous system, echoing back and forth, each amplifying the other. The ripples met in harmonic peaks that grew sharper and higher with each beat of his heart. His next breath was a near sob of frustration at the endless, wearing, seemingly inescapable pain.

"No, Jim," Blair whispered then. "No, man, I'm here." He laid his hand on Jim's cheek, and Jim found himself straining to that careful touch. "Just concentrate on me. There's nothing else." He gave a little hiccup of a sob, almost laughing. "Well, maybe there's some other stuff, but it's all really stupid. So just push it away, and I'll help you any way I can, you know that, right?"

Jim felt Blair trying to tuck himself even closer, his wet jeans sandy and rough against Jim's, but his chest warm where it pressed to Jim's back, the heartbeat strong and steady despite everything they had been through. "And when you're ready, we'll get a shower, get this sand washed off you, finally be warm and dry -- But not till you're ready." Blair sighed, long and deep. "Feels good to lie down for a sec, doesn't it?" He sniffled, no longer crying, though he was trembling a little. "I don't know," he went on, more softly. "It might be even worse now that we're finally here. Since we're not moving anymore, things might start to creep up on you."

Blair's hand moved carefully, stroking Jim's cheek so gently with his fingertips even the sand didn't hurt. Then he moved his hand to cover Jim's eyes, curling it carefully over the curve of his brow. "So we need to be careful, OK?" His voice was slow and exhausted. Jim could feel an infinity of weariness in the way Sandburg's body relaxed against his own. "Just focus on me, Jim. Nothing else. Just listen to my voice and relax. You're safe. We're both safe now, and everything's going to be all right. I promise."

Jim closed his eyes, feeling the drag on his lashes as they flickered shut against Blair's palm. "Aw, that's right," Blair whispered. "I'm going to take care of you. Just leave everything to me now." Blair took a long deep breath and let it out slowly. The warm air against Jim's back made him sigh in relief as well, and he felt Blair's smile against his shoulder blade, a gentle shifting of pressure.

"I know you're not real comfortable right now," Blair murmured. "Underwear full of sand isn't my favorite thing either. But we'll rest for a while, and everything will be ok. Just listen to my voice and rest. I'm right here. You know that, Jim. You know that, always."

A moment of silence, and Jim tried to be patient, struggling to be content with the warmth of Blair's body against his own and the tender intimacy of Blair's hand over his eyes, as though that shield could keep the rest of the howling universe away from him.

Then Blair began talking again, his voice the balm to Jim's soul it had always been. Perhaps even more so now, slurring with exhaustion and talking on anyway, simply because Jim needed him. "And it'll be easier, man, when you've gotten a little rest. 'Cause you're so tired now, makes it harder to control your senses. But it'll come back, Jim." Another deep breath, Blair's body shaking as he relaxed even further. His heartbeat was slowing down, and the arm lying on Jim was growing heavier, the hand over his eyes less careful in its touch. "I'll help you," he insisted drowsily. "Every step of the way. Everything's gonna be all right."

Another silence, longer this time. Waiting for Blair's voice was like sliding over the edge of a precipice. Dreamlike and slow, no ground beneath him, knowing gravity would grab him and yank down hard any second. The fall would be long, and he would know all the way down how much the impact was going to hurt. But maybe Blair would get a lifeline to him in time.

If Sandburg didn't fall asleep first.

Suddenly Blair flinched hard against him, a sharp, involuntary jerk. "Ah!" Blair said seriously, and Jim realized Blair didn't even know how near sleep he was. The hand that had been over his eyes slipped down, and Blair wrapped his arm around Jim's waist and tucked himself even nearer somehow, bending his knees to match the sprawl of Jim's legs. Then he began talking again. "I know, it's gonna be so tough for you now, letting go enough to get some sleep. So just listen to me. If you can't let go, then let me be everything for a while, and I tell you what, Jim, we'll pick up the rest of the world later on. Whaddaya say?" A huge yawn, then, and a long sigh after it. "I've got you," Blair mumbled, sounding wholly contented and sure. His arm tightened around Jim. "Not going to let you go."

"I know." Jim mouthed the words without speaking them out loud. Blair would be asleep in moments and Jim wouldn't try to stop him. He crossed his own arms over Blair's where it lay tucked around his waist. "Rest," he told Blair, and this time he did speak out loud.

"Aw, Jim, both of us," he slurred. "Jus' for a minute, here." One of Blair's legs jerked, and the fingers on the hand Blair had tucked under Jim's side twitched at the same time. "Lissen to my voice," Blair mumbled. "Everything's OK." All at once his breathing became harsher and steadier. Blair was asleep.

Jim opened his eyes.

The room was bleak and gloomy as only a strange, shuttered room in daylight can be. Everything was shades of gray, the second bed, the sink in its tiny alcove just beyond the half-open bathroom door. The place smelled of dust and disinfectant, stale cigarette smoke, perfumed hand soap, mildew, and very faintly of Blair's earlier presence in it. His backpack, that's what Jim was picking up, the leather redolent with all the scents of Blair's life, subtly blended into something that was more than the sum of its parts. Just like Sandburg himself.

The ordeal was over, Jim told himself, and tried to feel relief. Ought to call Simon, he thought vaguely, without any ability to act on the idea. Let him know what happened. And tell him this is the last time we do any joint operations with the Feds, got that?

Jim felt himself starting to shake, despite the warmth of Blair's sleeping body at his back. It was over. It had to be. The explosion that had ripped through the misty dawn on the dunes -- surely that had been the Feds moving in. What else could it have been?

_The boat won't be here till morning. I've got time._

The remembered voice pulled a shiver from him and his arms trembled with the desire to press Blair's arm closer across his waist. A faint chance the man who knew Blair's name was still out there, somewhere -- Jim squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face on the coarse bedspread. Synthetic fibers burned his cheek. No. It was all over. He would lie here, easy, resting, waiting for Blair. If he stayed calm, he could make it.

His left wrist ached. The torn skin on his right one burned a little, but the left one ached clear through to the bone, the pain radiating out across the back of his hand and up the inside of his wrist. Everything hurt, but as he struggled to stay calm, to accept the pain without letting it worsen, his aching wrist began to consume more and more of his thoughts. It seemed strange that it hurt so much worse than the right.

He was still holding Blair's arm wrapped around his waist. He cautiously disengaged his own left arm and brought it up to look at his wrist. The damage was too recent for the bruises to really show. Just abraded flesh in a raw, red stripe. Merely looking at it seemed to intensify the pain. Or maybe it was letting go of Blair that did it. He shut his eyes again, trying to tuck his arm back over Blair's, but he was too late.

Blair shifted in his sleep, pulling his arms away and turning a little. He was still close, but he was no longer tucked carefully around Jim, and suddenly nothing was tolerable any more. Jim couldn't keep anything within limits. The salty film on his flesh burned, and it seemed to him he could feel the sharp, square corners of each and every grain of sand trapped in his clothes or drying on his skin. His wounds were more than untreated injuries. Each mark on his body was a memory written on flesh.

And oh yes, he knew how he had hurt his wrist. Had known all along. It didn't matter that his mind had shut down by the time it happened. The memories could still be read plainly, scrawled across his body. Plain as every wound that made poor Blair shudder and go so pale when he tried to look at them.

He had broken the flimsy latticework board behind him at long last, long after it was too late to do any good. He had been nothing anymore. All he'd ever been was reduced to a hurting animal splayed on the vivisectionist's table. Flat brown eyes swam up before him, and he had asked plainly and simply so anyone could understand, most of all himself, "End it."

It was over. He'd known that. All the barriers destroyed, everything Blair had ever tried to teach him, (oh god everything Blair had ever loved about him), all of it burned away as the night dragged on. Sensation battered him even when the device wasn't touching his flesh, and he knew he would never be able to shut it all out again. Not without Blair, and he had betrayed Blair over and over again, screamed for him every time the pain broke him from within, driving him down into the abyss. Yet he had just kept crawling back for some goddamned reason, only to see the proof of his betrayal staring at him, waiting to do it again. Thin, unsmiling lips and flat brown eyes.

"For the love of God," Jim had whispered, his throat burning with the effort of speech. "Please." He'd even thought, for a foolish, desperate moment, that the man would grant him his request. The expression on his torturer's face didn't change, but he reached up thoughtfully and laid his hand in the center of Jim's welted chest. Gentle as his touch was, Jim recoiled, head tossed back in agony. The heat of that palm seared him like a brand.

"So sensitive," the man murmured, in a voice that spiked through Jim's head with such effortless violence. "I've never had anyone like you before."

 

* * *

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He wouldn't allow Blair to partake of such a bitter feast_

Jim didn't realize he had turned his face away until he felt a rough latticework board scraping his cheek. Turning away didn't help. He felt the heat of the other's breath on his throat, more obscene even than the fingers that patted and stroked their way down his stomach. "Don't worry," he told Jim. The fetid gust of his breath nearly closed Jim's throat with the sharp panic of gagging. "The Mother of Jesus will hold you in her arms before morning. But we have hours yet. Hours, you and I. Tell me -- is Blair as sensitive as you are?"

Jim threw back his head and howled. There was nothing left. No reason to fight the pain, no reason to accept it. Every shriek had splattered more of himself across the torturer's canvas until there was nothing left of Jim Ellison at all.

He had heard the boards creak against his struggles all night, the scream of nails shifting in the flimsy wood growing louder and louder in his ears as the pain stripped his control from him. As the world rushed in upon him for the last time, he heard the crack by his ear louder than a gunshot. Roaring in agony, he dragged at the sudden yielding, fist clenched, straining forward, ropes burning flesh and bruising muscle. But none of it hurt worse than the grains of sand cutting his feet, or the bite of the sharp-toothed rain blowing in across his bare back.

The sentinel could feel the weakness in the wood, the injury done to it by his weight hanging against it, the nails working their way free or splitting the grain. He could feel the way to keep pressuring it, the tiny, advancing breakage of its weakest fibers as he pulled up with all the strength in his arm, and it didn't matter that his wrist didn't bend that way. He heard the pop in a deep place in his arm and kept pulling anyway.

Another crack. His hand came forward, a bolt of splintered wood still bound to his wrist. The man with the flat brown eyes was so close to Jim he didn't see it, even when Jim drove the wood into the side of his throat. Those terrible eyes widened in surprise. His knees buckled and he collapsed against Jim, blood beginning to pulse slow and thick around the protruding slat.

His hands scrabbled against Jim's body and he took a wheezing breath of air, refusing to die. Blood poured from his nose and mouth as he exhaled, and it burned Jim as it splashed on his chest, the reek sickening him. The weight of the torturer dragged down on his arm, still bound at the elbow, until Jim thought in a lost corner of his mind that his arm would surely break under the strain. He had screamed then too, and the laughter coming from the house above faltered for a moment, then resumed louder and more coarse than before.

He stared down at the man hanging from his wrist, whose head felt like live coals pressed to his ribs, whose hands flailed against Jim, trying to hurt, even at the last. His whiskers scraped Jim's flesh as he rolled his head up, trying to meet Jim's eyes. Jim shut his own, but he knew the man who had broken him was looking at him still, greedy for Jim's agony beyond all else, embracing it as solace even as he died. There was nothing Jim could do to shut those flat brown eyes. They would watch him forever, carry the knowledge of Jim's weakness and failure and every betrayal with them into eternity.

Jim gasped, and was back in the motel room, the spasm of his body jerking his weight hard against Blair slumbering exhausted at his back. The dim quiet should have been a haven of relief, but the walls he could see weren't enough protection from what pursued him. The enemy was as close as his own skin, and Jim huddled within it, afraid.

Chaos lay on the other side. It nibbled at the wounds on his body, found them sweet, and burrowed deeper. Cracks bloomed relentlessly across the tremulous barriers Sandburg had helped him erect, and Jim knew, with despair, they could not hold much longer. "Blair, please," he said, not even speaking out loud. The request was too unfair to voice, but he couldn't hold it in. "Help me."

Blair flinched a little, and slept on.

Jim shifted slowly, hearing the springs in the mattress yield beneath him, feeling the prickle of raveling threads in the coarse bedspread, and always, always the omnipresent sand scraping and grinding. Blair moaned a soft protest at the loss of contact, not coming awake, as Jim managed painfully to slide just far enough away to roll onto his back. He lay still for a moment then, marshalling his strength and his slipping control. The pain beat through him in waves that rose and fell in time with his own pulse, and helplessly he let it carry him. He turned his head as he waited for an ebb tide, feeling the tension in his muscles drawn like a cord from the base of his skull all the way down his spine, and looked at Blair.

Sandburg lay curled on his side, knees drawn up a little and digging into the side of Jim's thigh. His arms were tucked between himself and Jim. He was breathing in snuffling, open-mouthed breaths. Wide swathes of drying sand streaked across his ribs and chest, and a few crystals of salt still clung to his eyelashes, a tiny glittering against Blair's cheek in the darkness of the room. There was a tender-looking, swollen place over his jaw.

So the memories were written on Sandburg's flesh as well. Jim felt a numbing, breathtaking regret. It trickled down his scalp like the rain, shattering his feeble attempt at concentration. The pain spiked in irregular, jagged peaks, and more of the world punched through with every breath. There was a coffee shop somewhere nearby -- or perhaps not near at all. He could smell hot grease and burnt sugar. He heard the hiss of hot water hitting coffee grounds and trickling into the pot underneath. Plates clacking loud against each other, the unendurable cacophony of flatware scooped up together and thrown down on a metal tray. Jim gasped aloud, panicking a little, and instead of shutting down only spread the net further.

Sand and seashells rolling on the beach under the incoming waves. Millions of brittle shell fragments clicking and rattling. Every grain of sand on the beach. _Blair!_ he screamed in his mind, over the din that drew him back to madness with the inevitability of the tide, and he rolled over onto his side, heedless of the way such sudden movement hurt, and curled around Sandburg in desperation. He tucked Blair's head under his chin and wrapped his arms around him. He tried to be gentle, but his need was too urgent, his fear too great.

Blair's arms were still between them and his knees were drawn up, frustrating Jim's attempt to get even closer. He hooked his leg over Blair's hip, trying to encompass as much of Blair as he could. Blair didn't awaken even then, but he pressed a little closer, making an open-mouthed little sound Jim felt warmly against his throat, and with it, the universe began to quiet. Blair's forearms were pressed to Jim's chest, one hand spread open wide, the other clenched in a gentle fist. His head pushed against the underside of Jim's chin. His hair was gritty with sand, stiff with dried salt. But the top of his head was so warm.

Nothing else mattered. Nothing else could touch Jim. He cradled Sandburg closer to his heart, and instead of the din of the outer world, he listened in his memory to Blair's voice, telling Jim over and over again that he loved him. He listened even more closely to the sound of Blair's heartbeat and Blair's every exhalation, telling him the same thing right now.

He would survive this, even though it was impossible for him to imagine ever reclaiming his old life. But Blair believed he could. Blair believed all things, bore all things, hoped all things, endured all things, and Jim knew he would do anything in his power not to disappoint that love. Taking a deep breath, Jim loosed his desperate hold on Blair just a little, so he could stroke Blair's back with slow, tender care. It comforted him to be able to return Blair's trust with something besides an imprisoning embrace.

Blair muttered in his sleep and arched like a drowsing cat under Jim's touch. _There._ Jim sighed. More of the outside world was slipping away. He concentrated on that careful touch, and even the musty reek of the mattress beneath him faded and was lost as he concentrated on smoothing his hand down Blair's back again, feeling past the cut of the sand and the sticky film of salt to the smooth warmth of Blair's skin.

When he thought he was calm enough to bear it, he brought his hand up and held the back of Blair's head for a moment, feeling the precious weight against the palm of his hand, then slipped his hand forward, laying his palm along the line of Blair's jaw. The bruise was a little warmer than the surrounding flesh. "I'm sorry, Chief," he said in a soft, low voice.

Blair stirred uneasily at that, nearly coming awake. "Shhh," Jim whispered. "Easy. Sleep, now." And felt a tenderness so profound it was nearly pain when Blair quieted immediately in response to his voice, settling closer to Jim with a sigh.

His hand still resting over the bruise on Blair's face, he allowed himself to remember the taste of Blair's blood on his lips and in his mouth. How had Sandburg known? But somehow he had. The heat of his blood drawn over Jim's features with such aching care had displaced forever the hot, irregular gouts of the torturer. It had been more than mere substitution and replacement. Such a profound mystery. Everything Blair was. All his fears and uncertainties, all his courage and love.

Jim had still been so lost, believing he couldn't possibly allow Sandburg to take such terror and desolation into himself. All Jim had left to call his own by then were the despair and grief and regret. And so much pain. The cut of the knife had shattered any hope there was anything left to him but betrayal and pain, and he wouldn't allow Blair to partake of such a bitter feast. There was almost nothing left of him then, nothing worth anything to anyone, but he had strength enough to keep Blair away.

Then he had heard Blair, weeping alone on the sand.

Remembering what he could of it all, Jim crossed his arms carefully over Blair's back, finding a vast, abiding comfort in Blair's deep sleep, even though he couldn't find that rest himself yet. He had been able to pull himself to Blair's side, out there on the beach. He remembered that. He had tried to do what Blair wanted him to do, he was certain of that as well. Blair had simply demanded everything of him, and he could no more refuse than he could will his own heart to stop beating.

He knew. He'd tried to do that too, tonight. It had been only a small failure next to all the others he kept close within his heart, but it had been the one he regretted most bitterly at the time.

 

* * *

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Deaf and blind, at peace_

Jim closed his eyes, pushing it away. He would not dwell on death, not while he held life in his arms. Especially now that he suspected the dimensions of that life. He had a dim recollection of what he had seen on the beach when he had finally permitted Blair to taste his soul. The vision was growing cloudier, as Blair helped him reclaim more and more of himself, but when he touched Blair's throat, or put his hand on Blair's chest, he could still see the wavering outlines and a faint echo of that incandescent white power.

He felt the warmth of it whenever Blair was near him. It gave him strength when he had none of his own left, filled his heart when nothing remained but the bitterness of failure and defeat, insisted he live when it would be easier to die. Tears came to Jim's eyes, but they were easy, painless tears of joy. Blair had simply shown him what he had known all along. It was what he had felt himself, from the very start.

His arms tightened around Blair again, but he knew he was holding his friend in love, not desperation. Blair seemed to relax even further then, a last tension slipping from him as he rolled a little toward Jim, straightening his legs, tucking himself into Jim's embrace. His breaths puffed warmly against the hollow of Jim's throat, and his hands were balled into loose fists and tucked under his own chin, his forearms against Jim's chest.

Jim began to draw his own breath in time with Blair's. He had to concentrate at first, but the slower rhythm of Blair's sleeping breaths gradually pulled him in. His pulse slowed as well as he focused on the steady contractions of Blair's strong heart, falling into closer and closer time until at last it might have been his own heartbeat he heard reflected back from Sandburg's body.

He still hurt, and he couldn't remember the last time he had been so weary. His very soul seemed to ache, everything he had ever believed himself to be battered beyond recognition. Whatever control he had left was only because he could hold Blair in his arms. But it was enough. He could wait without fear of falling further while Blair rested.

Outside, the world flowed around their hiding place, and Jim listened to the dawn. The changing cries of the sea birds. The way tires hummed over asphalt as the rising sun heated the pavement. The distant sounds of life in the other motel rooms. People stirring slowly, water running, voices raised in sleepy disagreement, suitcases slamming shut.

Jim closed his eyes, trying to ignore as much as he could, sinking himself into the rhythms of Blair's living presence. Their soothing cadences grounded him, and he drifted, half aware, conscious of his many hurts as he was of the sounds around him, out to the street, but able to ignore them so long as the quiet metronome of Blair's heartbeat and breath moved time past him in pieces he could encompass.

Sandburg stirred and muttered in his arms. Jim could feel the flicker of eyelashes against his throat, and realized Blair was dreaming.

_Must be the last day of the quarter, Blair was thinking as he laid another blue book aside. Grades were due this afternoon before five. That was the only reason he could imagine for dragging Jim down here and then making him wait while Blair read through endless stacks of undergraduate essays. Not that Jim was complaining. He sat at Blair's desk, leaning back, eyes half closed, a cup of coffee cooling on a small cleared space on the blotter in front of him. "Just a little longer here," Blair lied, glancing at the stack of essays still to be graded. "I really appreciate this, man."_

_Jim nodded a little, or seemed to, and Blair bent his head over the next essay. He was tired, he realized almost at once. Too tired to be doing this. The handwritten scrawl tangled with the blue lines of the paper until Blair couldn't read a single word of it. He shut his eyes and shook his head, then opened them and tried again. Nothing. If anything, it was worse than before. Didn't even look like handwriting anymore. And what in the world had possessed this student to write his entire essay in red ink?_

_He closed the blue book and laid it aside, thinking he'd deal with it later. He expected Jim to ask him about it. Maybe he was hoping Jim would ask. He felt tired and frustrated, and really wanted to just go home, though he knew he couldn't. Neither one of them could. He groaned and stretched, shivering. He was sitting on the floor by the bookshelves, and it was no wonder he was cold. He looked down at himself and found he was wearing nothing but boxers and a sleeveless T-shirt. He was even barefoot._ Good grief, _Blair thought. Why in the world had Jim let him go out like this?_

_It seemed more urgent than ever he get the damned essays graded and get out of here before anyone saw him like this. He opened the next booklet, and a few grains of sand drifted down from the open pages. Blair brushed the grit off his bare legs, irritated. Where in the world had that come from? When he looked up again, he found this essay had been written in red ink as well._

_OK, now that was definitely a little weird. Something was going on here. Was he the only one who had been left out of the loop? Wouldn't be the first time, but who could have thought it would be a good idea to write all the final exams in red ink? The next booklet was filled in red, as was the next, and the next. He pushed them all aside angrily. He couldn't work like this. To hell with all of them._

The steady counting beat changed its speed, catching Jim unawares. His own breath caught unevenly as he tried to recapture his synchronization with Blair's, at first not even understanding the missed beat was not his fault for losing his concentration. But it was not a very great disruption, and soon he was able to re-establish the pattern, adjusting to the slightly faster tempo.

_"That's it for me," he announced to Jim. "I'm ready to get out of here."_

_But of course, he never could fool Jim. Jim just continued to sit there, a patient look on his face, and Blair felt a little ashamed of himself. "I know, I know," he said, hoping he didn't sound like he was whining. "But I'm really beat. These don't even look like English to me anymore. I just want to go home and get a little shut-eye. It's not a big deal. I'll talk to the dean tomorrow if there's a problem."_

_He tried to stack the booklets up in a neat pile, as though that would accomplish anything. His hands were still gritty with sand. He wiped them ineffectually on his boxers, thinking he was really cold and wondering if Jim would lend him his coat. He hated to ask, but the thought of driving all the way home shivering in his underwear made him feel hopeless and miserable. Way more than the simple loss of dignity. He felt as though things were going wrong that were far beyond his ability to put right, even if he did get home and get a good night's sleep._

_"Jim?" he asked cautiously._

Blair shivered in his arms, drawing Jim out of his dazed state again. He was cold himself. The room was so much warmer than they had been all night, he hadn't realized how his wet jeans were still sucking the dregs of heat from his body as he lay there. The same would be true of Blair, whose reserves were as depleted as his own. Helplessly, Jim spread his hands wide on Blair's back, as if that would provide more warmth.

Dark memory brought the fleeting impression of Blair's hands stretched across his back, shielding him from the cold rain, trying to give him hope and warmth and life. Jim shifted, letting his touch remain gentle and close. It had worked before for Blair, perhaps it would work now for him.

 _Still that patient, half-lidded, knowing look from Jim. Blair's head dropped and he sighed to himself._ OK, just admit to Jim that you've over extended yourself again, and you need his help. What else can you do? _Thinking that calmed him a little, but Jim's gentle trust was so precious and Jim himself was so strong, that Blair still hesitated a little. Then he made a show of stretching his arms over his head and cracking his back as a little demonstration of weariness. Or tried to anyway. When he started to raise his left wrist, he discovered it was handcuffed to the metal bookshelves._

_He gave a little yelp of surprise. "Jim? What's going on here?"_

_Nothing from Jim, who didn't seem to have noticed anything amiss. His eyes were still half closed, and he didn't look toward Blair at all. Blair couldn't understand it. All he had to do was whisper Jim's name from across a crowded room to see the gesture so instinctual Blair was fairly certain Jim wasn't even aware of it. Head tilting toward Blair, eyes flickering in his direction, even if only for an instant. The reaction was so automatic Blair had learned to be cautious of it, because it didn't matter how focused Jim was on the task at hand, and it didn't matter what was going on around him. When Blair called him, Jim came, no matter what._

_"Jim," Blair said again. A slow, terrible fear lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. He got to his knees, tugging uselessly at his cuffed wrist and feeling sand grinding under his knees. "Jim, at least look at me, man. Please."_

One of Blair's hands moved, the wrist pressing against Jim's chest in an uneven twitch. It hit two of the burned marks on his skin, and he couldn't keep from flinching slightly. At the movement, Blair breathed out a harder sigh, but remained asleep, his eyes moving rapidly under the pale, shadowed lids.

_Jim didn't get up. Jim didn't look at him. He only sat there, his eyes calm, as Blair struggled to get his feet up under himself. He was yanking so violently at his tethered wrist the entire bookshelf shifted. He screamed Jim's name over and over again. None of it made any impression on Jim, because Jim had finally found an escape from those senses he'd never really wanted in the first place. He sat there, deaf and blind, at peace at last, while Blair screamed to heaven, and wasn't heard._

 

* * *

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Quiet blueness as he looked into Blair's eyes_

The sharp, sudden spike in Blair's heartbeat was jarring, almost painful. Jim shifted slightly, uneasy, knowing Blair was dreaming but not sure whether he should be awakened or not. Sandburg was so tired, and had done so much. Still had so much more left to do, Jim admitted to himself. Jim was barely able to roll over -- there was no way he would be able to care for his own injuries. He felt an odd combination of dismay and wonder at knowing he would lean on Blair as heavily and for as long as he needed to.

He listened to the increasing speed of Blair's heart, feeling it begin to pound, and a moan caught deep in Blair's throat, as if a scream had been strangled there. Jim knew about nightmares. "Blair," he said softly but firmly, tightening his grip a little, then letting go so he could look down into Blair's face. "Wake up, Chief, it's all right." The weakness in his own voice surprised him. He hadn't noticed his throat was so raw, but it coarsened and broke his speech.

"Come on," he whispered, feeling Blair catch his breath and startle out of sleep. Everything else was gone, for those few moments, from the constant hissing of the surf on the beach outside to the buzzing of the neon in the motel's "Vacancy" sign out front. All the doors slamming in other rooms, even the car that started out front with a grinding as the starter flywheel caught. All of it faded away into a quiet blueness as he looked into Blair's eyes, wide and surprised so close to his own.

"Jim?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Right here, Chief."

 

* * *

The dream still held him, a phantom pain in the wrist that wasn't really cuffed at all, the terror of not being able to help Jim when Jim needed him so desperately. But Jim's eyes were open wide, gazing into his with compassion, and Jim had answered so gently when he called his name.

"Aw, Jim!" Blair moaned in relief. He pulled his arms out from between their bodies, wound them around Jim's neck, and hugged him hard. "Oh **man** , I'm glad to see you."

Jim seemed to flinch a little, and a sound escaped him that sounded, in Blair's sleep-dazed state, almost like pain. But Jim's arms were around him, hands patting his back reassuringly, and Jim's leg lay over his hip, keeping him pressed close. Blair burrowed deeper into that embrace instinctively, not worrying about anything else but his overwhelming relief. "It's all right," Jim told him quietly. "You were dreaming."

The voice reached Blair first, before any of the rest of it, the sand and grit, the sticky salt taste on his lips, his hair stiff and prickling around his back and shoulders and reeking like seaweed, the cold weight of his wet jeans, his underwear bunched up on one side, wet and every bit as sandy as everything else. Jim's voice. Cracking and hoarse, as though just speaking were an almost intolerable burden.

"Jim?" he whispered, frightened, spreading his hands against Jim's back.

The pressure of Blair's body against his chest woke small fires of pain, and put them out as quickly with the soothing touch of his skin. Sprinkled with acid, then bathed in cool water, over and over. Jim caught his breath unevenly and held on to Blair, muscles tense with the effort not to tighten his grip in desperation. He wanted to be gentle, as kind as Blair had been to him, but he didn't know if he had the strength for it. There was nothing he could do about the way his voice sounded, so terribly unlike himself he could feel the way his words made Blair instinctively uneasy again. Blair felt his struggle, Jim's muscles wincing deep under the flesh, sandy, damp, and warm where they touched. "Jim," he breathed in horror as it all came flickering back, a few stark images at first, then everything in a rush, so overwhelming and terrible he decided he simply couldn't accept any of it. He would have no part of a world where this could have happened to Jim. Hurt again and again, brutalized until his mind and heart had shattered, and suffering it all alone. No. It was impossible. Blair didn't have to believe it. He wouldn't.

Jim's hands trembled as they stroked his back. Blair could feel them shaking. He squeezed his eyes shut and held Jim in despair. There was no escape. This was where Jim was, and so this was where Blair had to be as well, but by all the darkest gods in heaven and earth, by every black-hearted spirit that had allowed this to happen, he wished he could take Jim and simply go away.

He took a long, shuddering breath, trying to come back from that place he wanted to take Jim to, and the first thing he realized was he had fallen asleep and left Jim alone in wet, sandy clothes, his wounds untreated, not even a drink of water after his ordeal, not so much as a word of comfort. He moaned in grief and regret, then tried, too late, to stifle the sound when he heard his pain answered in Jim's voice. He unwrapped his arms from around Jim's neck, though he couldn't bear to release him altogether, and pulled back far enough to look into Jim's face.

Jim saw his own destruction in Blair's eyes. It hurt again, knowing how he had been broken, ruined by his own weakness when put to the test. Not able to be what was needed, not for himself, not even for Blair. Only able to crawl, and cling, and need so hopelessly. Ashamed, Jim shifted his weight backward, pulling his leg off of Blair's hip, letting his arms relax their hold. Freedom was little enough to give, but all he had left any more, and even that had been given to him by Blair.

"Jim." Blair held his head, his hands framing that bruised face. "Lie still, Jim." His voice broke, but he kept talking anyway. "I'm sorry, man. I guess I fell asleep. I'm so sorry."

Jim had to close his eyes.

It seemed to Blair a touchingly childish gesture, as if Jim thought he could spare Blair the sight of his wounds by hiding his eyes. Blair tilted his head forward, touching his forehead to Jim's. *I'm strong enough for this,* he thought. That's what he had to let Jim know. That he was strong enough to take care of Jim, no matter how bad it was. Jim didn't need more idle words from him, though, and he sure as hell didn't need any more tears. He needed to be warm and dry. He needed someone to take the pain away. Blair took a deep breath and said gently, "We've got to get you out of these wet clothes before you end up with pneumonia or something. I know it's gonna be hard, so I need for you to work with me on this."

Jim lifted his hand to cradle the back of Blair's head. "I'll try," he whispered. But he was lying, he knew it. That simple promise to try meant success to Blair, but not to himself. He couldn't even keep his promise to himself to let Blair go, not when he needed so badly to touch him, to use his presence to keep the sounds from outside and the smell of the room and the constant, hot ache of his scraped skin from becoming the only world he had. He had tried already, and failed so many times, and he knew with despair that he would fail again, even though he kept trying.

Blair saw it all. _Jim,_ he thought, his heart aching. There were no words for this, his awe at Jim's strength and courage, far less the depth of his love for this great and good man. Blair brought Jim's face up, slowly and carefully, hoping Jim would open his eyes and look back at him. And he did, eyelashes rising slowly, heavy with hopeless weariness. Blue filtered through layers of exhaustion and sorrow. "You're not alone," Blair said. "I told you, I won't let you be alone anymore."

And then, because the hurt still shone back from Jim's eyes, Blair bent his neck and lifted his head a little so he could kiss him. When he eased back, his lips warm from Jim's mouth, the corners of Jim's eyes were crinkled as though he might smile, and to keep from crying Blair said, "And the next time I fall asleep on you, man, just whap me one, would you? Geez."

Jim did smile. Carefully, mostly with his eyes, but Blair knew a smile when he saw one. "You needed to rest," he told Blair hoarsely.

"And you need to get warm and dry," Blair said, hearing the way his own voice shook. He swallowed, then tried again. "I'm pretty thirsty. You want a drink of water?"

He felt Jim's arms tighten, an involuntary little movement, and Jim couldn't answer him at first. Blair knew why. Jim's fear and his need were so heartbreaking, but Blair knew he could help. There was nothing he couldn't do, if it would help Jim. He touched Jim's face, and an almost lost memory surfaced. Visible strength and power drawn over features that were slack with pain and exhaustion. "It's OK," Blair whispered, not lying. "I'm not going to leave you."

Jim nodded. His arms relaxed a little, but he didn't let Blair go. "I know," he said.

"Glad we've got that straightened out," Blair said when he could trust his voice. "It's up to you. Whatever you feel up to. We're just gonna take it one step at a time here, because I don't know any other way to do it."

Jim nodded again, his face calm and serious. "Whatever you say, Chief," he rasped.

"Wish I could get that in writing," Blair pretended to grumble. He patted Jim's cheek with enormous care, lightly and tenderly as he could. "We've got to get this sand off," he said. "I know it's hurting you." He saw Jim's jaw tighten a little. "I know," Blair said, more quietly still. "Everything hurts right now. But you're gonna get past this. One step at a time, and I'll be here the whole way."

Jim sighed, his eyes closing for a moment, then locking on Blair's again, wide open with trust and need. "Just tell me what to do," he said.

 _As if I know,_ Blair thought, humbled again. _As if I ever did._ He said, "So, how does a nice hot shower sound?"

"Painful," Jim answered in a low voice, honest as ever.

Blair bit his lip, and saw his own fear reflected instantly in Jim's searching blue eyes. "OK," he whispered. "I know. It's not gonna be easy. But we'll take it slow, and we'll figure out a way to do this so it doesn't hurt too much, because we've got to get the sand off. We've got to get you warm and dry."

Jim nodded one more time. His eyes closed again, and this time they stayed closed. His hands came up and lay on Blair's shoulders. Just resting there, no longer holding him. He lay resigned beside Blair, waiting for whatever Blair wanted him to do.

"Let's try it this way," Blair said, whispering so his voice wouldn't shake. "Do you think you can sit up?"

"I don't know," Jim said, and his voice sounded soft and lost.

 

* * *

 

 


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Though his voice was furious, his touch was gentle_

"OK," Blair said quickly. "Don't worry about it. How about we get to the edge of the bed and swing your legs around, just like when we got out of the car. That was a piece of cake, right? We'll just do it that way again."

A little huff of air from Jim. Almost a chuckle.

"So you're not a dessert man," Blair whispered. "So sue me. Now what I'm gonna do here, I'm gonna back off a little, and help you sit up on the edge of the bed. Nice and slow, and I'll be here the whole time. Just tell me if something hurts, and I'll stop it. OK? We ready here?"

Jim gave a tight, careful nod. The hands on Blair's shoulders tensed for a moment, then relaxed, though Jim didn't allow them to drop away. Blair put his right hand on Jim's chest, just below his shoulder, avoiding the puckered white burns as much as he could. The trails of them were so thick in places he had to place his hand with care, gritting his teeth to push away the sick, helpless feeling the sight of those marks brought him. Blair kept his touch on there, high on Jim's chest, while he shifted his legs backward the foot or so it took to reach the edge of the bed.

Easing the lower half of his body over the edge was a little tricky to manage without falling off completely, and he found himself biting the tip of his tongue in concentration as he moved. When he looked up, the corners of Jim's eyes were crinkled again, watching him with as much affectionate amusement as intent care. Blair smiled back at him. "You can laugh." He hoped desperately that it was true. "It's only going to get sillier from here on in, you know that, don't you?"

After another couple grunts and a pained "Ow" as his knees hit the concrete slab floor under the poorly padded carpet, Blair ended up kneeling, stomach pressed to the edge of the mattress, Jim's hands still resting on his shoulders. "Oh, man," he groaned. "I have got sand in places it should never even be allowed to think about. Now I remember why I always hated swimming in the ocean."

The hoarse, raspy sound Jim made was closer to a laugh than his last attempt. Blair grinned at him, his heart lightened by it. "Well, that and the fact the water is always so damned cold. Should'a brought your wetsuit on this trip, would have been worth the fishy smell in the car to have it along last night."

"'s not fishy," Jim said indignantly, his voice coming out in a husky whisper.

Blair's grin grew painfully wide, his eyes sparkling overbright for a second. "OK," he agreed, rubbing Jim's shoulder where he still held it, letting the gesture make up for the crack in his voice. "It's not fishy. But we are. So can you sort of bring your knees over this way, and then, like, rotate upward...."

The instructions made more sense to Jim than they did to himself, or perhaps Jim simply knew what was needed and the words didn't really matter. Taking a deep breath, Jim managed the maneuver, getting his calves over the edge of the bed, his weight pushing desperately hard against Blair's shoulders as he brought himself upright. When Jim opened his eyes again, the light blue was colored with surprise at finding himself sitting there, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Aw, Jim, that's perfect." Climbing up off his knees but staying bent over so Jim's hands never had to leave his shoulders, Blair carefully sat down next to him. "How you doing?" he asked softly. Jim just swallowed and nodded a little, but didn't speak. "OK. We'll rest for just a sec. Lemme know when you're ready to get up."

Jim nodded again, his eyes closing for a moment. His hands were heavy on Blair's shoulders, and Blair scooted closer, wrapping his left arm carefully around Jim's waist. Dry sand drifted down with their every move, and Jim flinched again and again, tiny pained movements Blair suspected he was trying to suppress. "I know," Blair said. "I know. But the worst is over. You can leave it all up to me now."

Jim exhaled a little too sharply. Blair couldn't quite read the expression on his face. "What do you think?" he asked quietly, believing Jim would find a way to answer. "Wanna try to stand up?"

Jim's arms slipped down, his hands spreading across Blair's back. His fingertips were soft, and the palms of his hands dislodged dried sand that trickled down Blair's back. It tickled a little. Blair grinned, and saw Jim instinctively try to mirror his expression. But it must have hurt -- the swelling at the corner of his mouth was already shading to a darker bruised color -- and the momentary smile became a wince of pain.

"Jim," he said in a miserable whisper, and pulled him closer still, putting his other arm around Jim and hugging him tight, knowing it had to hurt Jim too, but knowing Jim needed him anyway.

Jim's arms tightened fiercely around Blair's shoulders, holding on harder and harder until Blair felt a twinge of pain in his own arms and shoulders from the pressure. "That's right," he breathed, trying to pull Jim even closer, feeling the muscles in Jim's arms knotting hard with strain. "You've got me. Hold on as long as you need to." He hadn't known Jim had so much strength left, but he also knew he shouldn't have been surprised. This was Jim. Nothing else mattered, not really.

"Chief," Jim said as his arms relaxed and his head dropped. That low, ruined voice of his made Blair shiver, still. "What am I gonna do?"

"You're not gonna do anything," Blair said, and though his voice was furious, his touch was gentle, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Jim's head. "Not alone, anyway. You're with me now, and nothing's going to change that, not ever. I won't let it. We're both gonna come back from this, and we're going to do it together. You hear me, Jim? You getting this?"

For a long moment Jim remained tense in his arms, and then he loosened his grip and patted Blair's back twice. "Easy, Sandburg," he said softly. "I hear you. Help me up."

Blair sat back so he could look into Jim's face again. Jim's face was turned down, his jaw tense in anticipation of more pain, more struggles. Blair put his hands on Jim's head, gently framing those bruised features. "When it gets bad," he said quietly, "Just let me know. I'm right here, Jim. No matter what."

Jim looked up. He'd been steeling himself, Blair could see it, but he let the tension go for a moment. "I know," he told Blair, and managed a weak, lopsided sort of smile. "Have you always been such a stubborn bastard, Sandburg, or do I just bring out the best in you?"

"Careful, man, that's my mom you're talking about," Blair said, grinning for real. "Here, let's do it like this. Can you get one arm over my shoulders? That's right." He pulled Jim's arm around carefully, and sat up so he could tuck his own arm around Jim's waist. "Now I'm gonna stand up, and you just lean on me. You ready?"

Jim nodded grimly. Blair felt his muscles tensing, getting ready, and said, "Here we go." He slowly stood, taking as much of Jim's weight as he could. Jim moaned as he straightened up, his arm heavier and heavier over Blair's shoulders.

"Aw, Jim, you did it!" Blair whispered intently when they were standing at last. "Now we just -- " But then Jim's head came up with a snap. He made a terrible, strangled sound, his jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out like cords.

"Jim!" Blair cried out too loudly and moved too fast, afraid he was hurting Jim, but more afraid of letting him fall. He wrapped his arms around him and braced them both. Jim leaned heavily into his support, groaning out loud. _What now?_ Blair wondered in horror. It could be anything. Internal injuries? Broken bones? He hadn't even looked at Jim yet. There was no telling. _Oh god, Jim, you've got to tell me what's wrong._ "Please," he whispered, his face pressed hard against Jim's neck and shoulder as he supported him, keeping them both upright. "You gotta talk to me. I can't help if I don't know what's wrong."

Above him, Blair heard Jim take a shuddering breath of air. His hands clenched into fists at Blair's back. For a moment his weight bore down so heavily Blair was afraid they were both going to end up on the floor, but Jim locked his knees and remained upright. Blair waited, shaking with fear. So much could be wrong. So much would be beyond his ability to help. Only moments ago he had been so confident he could help Jim. What if it wasn't true?

He thought of strangers' hands on Jim, the lights and noise of an ER, needles, scalpels, blood, narcotics, anesthesia. It would kill Jim. More surely than his injuries, Blair was certain of it. In a hospital Jim would die screaming. "Jim!" he said suddenly, his voice too loud again. "Hush," he said then, trying to quiet himself. "Easy. Please let me help you. Please tell me why this hurts you so bad." _Please, Jim, tell me what to do._

After a long moment, the pressure of Jim's arms around his shoulders eased slightly, a little of the tension leaving Jim's battered frame. "Chief," he groaned in a rasping whisper. "It's this -- damned -- carpet."

"What?" At first Blair didn't understand at all. But then he looked down at the faded green shag rug. He rubbed his foot across the synthetic fibers, and had a moment of empathy so powerful he could feel the coarse threads like wires cutting the soles of his own bare feet. He hissed sharply, leaning into Jim. The intensity faded almost at once, leaving only a shuddering, sympathetic horror in its wake. It was just a scratchy green carpet Blair probably wouldn't have walked across barefoot if he'd had any choice in the matter, that was all. To Jim it was a tangled field of concertina wire.

His vision of Jim's world made Blair feel weak at the knees, light-headed with the immensity of the task before them. And Jim had believed him anyway, when Blair promised to bring him home again.

"Right," Blair whispered, still leaning against Jim, not able to look up into his tortured eyes just yet. "Gotcha. So this carpet is murder."

 

* * *

 

 


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All I had to do was get you off the beach, and then everything would be all right_

Blair let his head rest against Jim's shoulder, his face beside Jim's throat, and when he spoke to Jim he tried to keep his voice calm and certain. Everything was going to be all right, and he would never, never leave Jim. That was the truth, and it was all that mattered. It was the only thing Jim really needed to hear.

"Trouble is," he said, hoping he sounded matter-of-fact, "I don't see that we've got a whole lot of choice. If you really can't walk on this carpet, then I can, I don't know, maybe try to stretch the bedspread out over the rug for you, and you could walk on that. But Jim, I think you can do it. It's already a little easier, isn't it? You're already able to stand more than you could just a few seconds ago, aren't you?"

It was true. Jim was supporting most of his own weight, Blair could feel it. He lifted his head to see Jim's face. His jaw was set, his eyes squeezed shut, but he gave a tense little nod, and he allowed Blair to slowly ease his way to his side again, one arm around Jim's waist so they could walk together.

"I'm not gonna lie to you, man," he said softly, waiting until Jim was ready to take the first step. "No short cuts this time. No dialing it down and just shutting everything out. I know you can't do that."

Jim didn't respond, except in the most important way. He took one careful step. Blair felt his whole body wincing as he set his foot down, but he didn't withdraw, and he didn't stop.

"You're probably not in the mood for any more advice right now," Blair said ruefully. One more step, and they had cleared the corner of the bed. Jim's breaths were harsh and shallow, and his eyes were still closed. _A straight shot to the bathroom now,_ Blair thought, trying to feel encouraged. "But maybe it will help if you'll try your best to just concentrate on the here and now, lousy as it is. Don't worry about the future. It doesn't matter. It doesn't exist. Don't worry about the next five minutes. Right now is the only thing."

Another painful step, and another. "I -- don't -- LIKE -- it," Jim ground out past his gritted teeth, and Blair didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He felt like doing both.

He reached up and brushed the back of his fingers over the muscles clenching in Jim's jaw. "I know," he said. "But you'll accept it anyway. Every awful minute of it. Because it's only a minute at a time, and I'm here for every one of them. I don't know any other way. We've been looking forward to getting here all night long, and now we're finally here, and things are still bad, and I don't know about you, man, but I'm --"

He shut himself up before what he was thinking could slip out, but Jim stopped anyway. The arm over Blair's shoulders bore down more heavily. It would have been easy to sit down on the second bed, except, Blair thought with nearly hysterical irrelevance, it would really suck to get wet, sandy spots on both beds. Not to mention the difficulty of getting Jim on his feet again if he allowed them to rest. "You're what?" Jim asked in a rasping whisper.

"Really running my mouth here," Blair said with an unconvincing laugh, knowing that wouldn't work even as he said it, but the words had already escaped by then.

Jim's weight shifted as his free hand came up and grabbed Blair's jaw. It could have been anger, but Blair knew, even as Jim's fingers tightened, that it was something worse. He lifted his eyes to see Jim's face. "Jim," he said, and Jim released him with a sigh, letting his hand fall away, his eyes closing in resignation. He tried to take another step, but Blair was out of synch with him. Trying to drag himself and Blair at the same time was hopeless and he gave it up immediately and just stood there, panting softly, still leaning on Blair because he could not stand alone.

"Jim, stop, easy," Blair moaned. "Listen to me."

"I want to," Jim said quietly. "I haven't got anything else. I don't know if I'll ever have anything else again."

The ache was blunted and dull, but infinite for all that. Blair touched Jim's face again, and spoke through the pain, telling him the truth. "I'm sorry, Jim. Look, all I was gonna say is, I had this sort of fantasy in my head all night. I thought all I had to do was get you off the beach, and then everything would be all right. Well, we're off the beach now, and everything isn't all right. See, I thought it was hope that kept me going, that kept us both going out there-" he broke off, having to gasp for air, and because he didn't want to say the rest. "But," he finally went on, "if it was that hope that kept us going, then it was all a lie, because I know things are still so bad. I'm sorry, man. I'm sorry."

Jim bowed his head, whether in agreement or sorrow, or something else altogether, Blair wasn't sure, but the important thing was, after a moment Jim tried to take another step. This time Blair was ready and moved with him. They took another step. And another. The linoleum in the bathroom alcove looked so cool and smooth, its dull shine visible even in the dim light. Just a little farther, and they would be there. "Not hope," Jim said suddenly, forcing the words from his mouth in a moaning exhalation, dragging one leg forward to take yet another step. "Not hope. You."

Blair ducked his head. He couldn't stop and hold Jim like he wanted to, not when Jim was moving so good at last, but he felt overwhelmed, dizzy and a little faint, as though Jim were the one supporting him, and not the other way around. And who knew? Maybe Jim was. They took another step, and the difference between who led and who followed blurred even further. It didn't matter. That had never mattered to them.

Another step and at last Jim stood trembling on the smooth linoleum tile. Blair looked up at him, smiling hard. Jim's eyes opened again, just a little bit and, seeing Blair, the corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile. "You did it," Blair whispered. "Feel like you won a battle or something? 'Cause I do."

Jim let out a long breath of air. "What now, Chief?"

Blair sighed too. He moved closer to Jim, wrapping his other arm around Jim's waist and letting himself rest his head against Jim's sandy chest while he considered the question. It was a good one. And once again, just like everything Jim asked him tonight, he was damned if he knew.

The bathroom door stood open. The room was tiny. Not even a sink, that was out in the same alcove where they stood. To one side was the little open closet, half a dozen flimsy coat hangers on the rack, and his backpack lying on the floor. Blair had to look away. It reminded him too much of home. "Shower, I think," he said. "I know you've had enough of all this sand."

Jim turned his head to look toward the bathroom. He didn't say anything.

"And it'll feel good to get out of these wet jeans, right?" Blair insisted. He put his hands on Jim's shoulders and moved back a step, feeling the way Jim began to tremble at the loss of contact. "We'll go slow," he said quietly, "and I'll be right here. If anything hurts, just tell me, OK? We'll figure out a way around it."

Jim nodded. Both hands had been on Blair's shoulders, but he let them fall and instead began to work on the top button of his jeans, not saying anything. His head was down, and the wet cloth resisted the efforts of his fingers.

Blair waited, seeing the way Jim's fingers shook, so little strength in them. He could see the sand as well, and imagined how it had to be cutting at his sensitive skin, how painful it must be to try and exert enough pressure against the denim. Like trying to unbutton jeans encrusted in ground glass. Blair hesitated a moment more, then he said quietly, "Let me help, Jim," and put his hand over Jim's to still them. He looked up at Jim's face, seeing the despair at his own helplessness creeping up again. "Aw, I know. Sounds like a really bad come-on, doesn't it?" He grinned until Jim couldn't help but smile back a little. Blair could see it in his eyes, faint as a single star fading away in a dawn sky.

"Do your worst," Jim whispered.

"Geez, you sound real enthusiastic," Blair pretended to complain. "Don't know why I should be surprised, the way my luck usually runs." He lifted Jim's hands and put them on his shoulders. "Hold on. I'll have you out of these in just a second." He eased one hand gently under the waistband of Jim's blue jeans. The denim was half-dried, stiff with salt and grit and sand. No wonder Jim couldn't manage on his own. A cluster of welts marked the soft flesh around Jim's navel. Blair tried not to brush against the burns, but there were so many Jim flinched at almost every touch.

Blair felt a lightheaded, almost exhilarating heat prickle over his arms and up the nape of his neck when he realized how easily he could kill right now. It wouldn't be murder. The men who had done this to Jim had no right to live. A mercy killing. Blair would make it easy on them and do it quick. Easier than it had been for Jim.

A single hot tear spilled down his cheek, and he didn't wipe it away. "Tell me if it hurts," he said softly. Jim's hands had already tightened on his shoulders. Blair tucked his hand behind Jim's fly, trying to protect the sensitive skin on his lower belly while he wrested the buttons back through the stiff denim. He could feel the tender flesh twitching against the back of his hand. There was sand everywhere, trapped under the elastic waistband of Jim's boxers, streaked across his stomach in gritty lines and whorls. Blair knew he was hurting Jim, he had to be, but not a sound escaped him.

Aw dammit, there was no way to be as gentle as he had to be, as Jim needed him to be. Not if they were ever going to get these off. He warned Jim, saying, "Easy, man," and finally punched the button back through unyielding cloth. Jim flinched hard, the muscles in his gut trembling in reaction, though he still didn't allow a sound to escape. He only moved his hands a little, and lowered his head so he could rest his forehead on Blair's shoulder. "You're still with me here, right?" Blair asked, and he patted Jim's side very gently.

Only then did Jim make a sound. A harsh gasp, as though he had been holding his breath. Blair waited, and finally Jim whispered, his forehead still pressed to Blair's shoulder and his hands gripping hard, "... your idea of a seduction, Sandburg?"

Blair laughed softly and started working on the second button. He could feel Jim's stomach muscles drawn tight with every breath. "Is that supposed to be a comment on my technique?"

"Just -- a first-hand look -- at the train wreck," Jim managed as Blair freed the next button. His head was heavier on Blair's shoulder, and he was breathing in short, hard pants.

Blair stopped. "This is really hurting you," he said. "I don't know. Maybe we could try another way. Cut them off or something." _With what?_ he wondered immediately. His little knife was lost back on the beach, and he couldn't have sawed through wet denim with it anyway.

"Chief," Jim whispered. "For god's sake. Just unbuttoning my jeans. If I can't even survive that, what am I supposed to do?"

 

* * *

 

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His entire life had been only prologue and preparation for this moment at Jim's side. Nothing else would ever matter so much._

"Shut up," Blair said tenderly. "Didn't I tell you not to go there?" He worked his hand down a little farther, struggling to undo the third button while Jim held on tight, his grip nearly painful on Blair's shoulders. "Guess it would have been just too easy if you'd worn khakis today instead of jeans, huh?" The next button slipped through. "Hey, almost there." Blair wondered if he could work Jim's jeans down and off now, but he thought of the rough denim pulled taut, forcefully scraping sand over Jim's hips and winced. It would be easier on Jim in the long run if all the buttons were undone.

He closed his eyes for a moment, shutting out the sight of those puckered white blisters, and tried to feel, sentinel-like, for the easiest way to free the next button. His knuckles were pressing too hard against Jim's lower stomach as he struggled with the stubborn material. The way Jim drew careful breaths told Blair it hurt more clearly than the way he trembled. "I'm trying," Blair moaned in frustration, and suddenly all the rest of the tiny and absolutely insurmountable tasks of the next minutes, and hours, and days reared up before him, and he had no idea how he would survive them. Far less how Jim would.

"Sandburg," Jim said then, his voice low.

Blair gasped and shook his head. "I know," he said. "Sorry, man. I know. One thing at a time." He shut his eyes again, calming himself, and the metal button slipped sideways and through the button hole easily. One more to go. He worked his hand a little farther down, trying to be careful for Jim, and felt wiry curls, crusty with sand. Realizing how intimate his touch had become, he felt a tenderness so profound his own heartbeat seemed to change. Slower and slower, the weight of his love heavier than gold. Jim's breath was a soft warmth across Blair's chest, though the breaths themselves were labored, ragged with exhaustion and pain. Jim held him, shivering, and the last button slipped free without effort.

Jim lifted his head. His hands fell from Blair's shoulders, and Blair instinctively reached to hold Jim's shoulders in turn as he worked his jeans and boxers down over his hips. It took a while, but Jim was patient and determined, and Blair simply held him with all the gentleness in his heart as Jim finally eased his jeans down over his hips. They dropped to mid thigh. Jim sighed and met Blair's eyes. "Think I need a little more help," he whispered.

"Hey, that's what I'm here for," Blair said. "Hold on, OK? Don't want both of us ending up on the floor." He managed a smile for Jim. "Ready?"

Jim nodded and let his hands rest on Blair's shoulders as Blair carefully knelt. It occurred to him belatedly that this would have been easier if Jim were sitting down. _Next time, man._ There were tender-looking red marks on his thighs that would probably bruise spectacularly in the next couple of days. Blair tugged the jeans over Jim's knees, pushing them down to puddle stiffly around his ankles and lower calves. "So, OK," Blair said. "You think you can lift your foot up out of them now? Hold onto me, and I'll try to keep them from rubbing too bad as you pull up. OK? Is that gonna work?" He looked up at Jim's face.

"All right," Jim murmured, not quite speaking out loud. His hands spread across Blair's shoulders, letting Blair support more of his weight, and he raised his left foot.

Blair slipped one hand down, trying to cradle the bruised ankle with his fingers and keep the rough denim away. Jim hissed sharply and Blair flinched as though he were the one who had been hurt. "Easy," he said, pushing the denim down and away as best he could with his other hand. He heard Jim swallow back a sound like a sob as his foot came free. The bruising around his ankle was already livid, blue streaks spreading from the abraded flesh up his calf and down across the delicate bones of his foot. Dried blood and sand flaked from his sole.

A shudder of cold wracked Blair before he could steel himself against it. He wished he could bend his head and press a kiss to the top of Jim's foot as he held it carefully in his hands. Instead he told Jim quietly, "We've got to get this cleaned up before it gets infected or something." He helped Jim set his foot down gently on the smooth tile. "Other foot now." He glanced up again. He couldn't see much of Jim's face, dark as the motel room was. Jim's eyes were open. Blair could see the glimmer of blue looking down at him, and he inched closer, slowly, so Jim wouldn't lose his balance, and let his head rest against Jim's thighs for a moment. "We're going to get through this," he said. "It's going to get better."

One of Jim's hands came off his shoulder and patted the top of Blair's head. A little clumsy, but infinitely gentle all the same. "I know," he said.

"Ready?" Blair asked, sitting back. Jim nodded, tightening his grip on Blair's shoulders once again. As before, Blair tried to shield the torn skin as well as he could, but there was no way to protect Jim entirely. He pushed the jeans down and helped Jim lift his foot free, leaving the jeans and boxers at last tangled together on the floor. He had an absurd desire to put them away for Jim immediately. It seemed such a violation of his friend's orderly soul to leave wet clothes crumpled on the floor.

"You did it," he said, and got slowly to his feet, the weight of Jim's hands on his shoulders the whole way. "Better already, huh?" he asked, keeping his voice calm and low. "I know how uncomfortable that was getting." He shifted a little himself and grinned. "Boy do I know." He smiled up at Jim, but it was getting more difficult for Jim to answer those smiles, even with his eyes. He clung to Blair, hands clamped hard around Blair's shoulders, trembling. It occurred to Blair that he still hadn't really looked at Jim, and still had no idea how severe his injuries might be.

 _Because you don't really want to know, do you?_ The accusation of his own cowardice made him flinch, but it was true. He might find wounds he couldn't care for alone. He didn't know if he were strong enough to face the truth without breaking something inside himself. And he couldn't let that happen. Not when Jim needed him so badly.

 _Wrong, Sandburg. Once again, you've got it so wrong._ He lifted his hands and cradled Jim's bruised face, looking intently into those burning blue eyes. He didn't say what he was thinking, but he suspected Jim already knew.

They had broken Jim tonight. Faceless strangers Blair would never know had taken everything, and left nothing of Jim's spirit but ashes. Blair knew Jim believed that. How could a man as strong and self-sufficient as Jim help but believe that about himself when he was reduced to this, shivering naked in a motel bathroom so far from home, bloody and bruised, smeared with sand and salt, helpless in Blair's arms. Afraid there was nothing left of himself to go on any longer.

But it wasn't so. Everything that was purest and most true was still here, clearer than ever through the pain and despair. He would make Jim believe in himself again. No one else could do that for Jim, but Blair knew he could. He would help Jim rebuild what he once had been, and it would start with this. The signs on Jim's body, the least of what he had suffered.

Blair was strong enough for this. Of course he was. His entire life had been only prologue and preparation for this moment at Jim's side. Nothing else would ever matter so much. "Jim -- " he started to say, and saw Jim cock his head just a little to one side, that absolutely instinctive response to Blair's voice even when they were this close, Blair's hands gentle on his face. He stopped, and said the practical things first. There would be time for everything else when Jim was finally resting, warm and dry. "Jim, I think we need to triage here, OK? I'm gonna turn on the light so I can get a better look. You're gonna be all right with this. Just think it would be a good idea for me to make sure."

As soon as he said it he wondered if Jim would ask, "Sure of what?" and how he would answer the question if he did, but Jim only nodded and closed his eyes. Blair covered those closed eyes with his own hand, and with the other reached around behind himself for the wall switch. "Turning on the light now. Easy."

Jim flinched anyway when the dim yellow lights blazed over the mirror. Blair did too, in reaction to Jim's discomfort as well as to the reflection of Jim's back in the mirror. He hadn't noticed those injuries before. Scrapes and bruises, a few long scratches stretching the breadth of his shoulder blades and upper back. How much else was there that he hadn't seen yet? He breathed in deeply, looking for strength for himself and for Jim. "I'm taking my hand away now. Are you going to be all right?"

By way of answer, Jim lifted his own hand and gently removed Blair's. His eyes opened for a moment, but then closed again almost at once, the creases at their corners deepening with strain. "OK," Blair said again. "You know what? Let's come in here so you can sit down while I do this." He put his arm around Jim's waist and gently led him into the cramped little bathroom. Jim shuffled blind and trusting, nothing but little moans he couldn't quite keep locked in his throat escaping every time he set a foot down.

Blair had to maneuver them sideways through the narrow door. He went first, gently pulling Jim after him. Jim's arm was over his shoulders, and he was holding on tight. Blair reached to lower the seat lid on the toilet, but he was turned a little awkwardly, supporting Jim, and his fingers slipped. The lid smashed down with a sharp crack that jerked Jim's head up and back like a blow. "Aw, Jim," he whispered, reaching up to touch the clenched jaw. "I'm so sorry. I'm such an idiot. God, I'm sorry."

Jim shook his head once, stunned by the violence of the unexpected noise, but he managed to get out in a hoarse whisper, "It's OK. Just don't -- do that any more."

"I won't. I promise. I won't." He maneuvered around beside Jim, supporting his arm and trying not to touch the wounds on his wrist and above the elbow. "Hold on for me just a second more, OK?"

 

* * *

 

 


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jim in agony, beyond his help forever_

Blair grabbed one of the thin, coarse towels from the rack and shook it out over the cold toilet seat lid. "Here, Jim. Just sit down easy."

Jim did as Blair asked him, legs trembling. None of the tension left him when he was sitting down. He was bolt upright, knees together, hands resting on his thighs. His eyes were still closed. Blair put a hand on his shoulder and bent over him. "Just hang on a little while longer for me." He moved around in front of Jim and once again laid his hands gently on the sides of his face, careful of the angry bruise over his jaw. "You're the medic, so tell me if I'm missing anything, all right?"

To Blair's amazement, another of those weak, lopsided smiles twitched at the corner of Jim's mouth. "Chief, my heart's beating," he whispered, eyes still closed. "I'm breathing. What else matters?"

Blair couldn't answer the smile or the question. He swallowed hard before he managed to say, "Just humor me, all right?"

Jim's eyes flew open. Veined with red, streaming and blinking against the light, but they fixed on Blair's face nevertheless. "I mean it." He lifted his hand and laid it against Blair's throat, as though feeling for the pulse. His palm felt shockingly warm to Blair, and Blair blinked at his own streaming eyes as Jim went on, "Basic triage. Clear the airways. Make sure there's a pulse." He grabbed Blair's hand with his other hand and held on tight. "That wasn't a given tonight. You understand me?"

Blair wasn't sure he did, but he leaned forward until his forehead nearly touched Jim's, pulling their clasped hands to his chest. "You know why I'm still alive," Jim insisted in a harsh whisper. "Even though I wanted to die so badly."

"Jim," he moaned, suddenly unsure whether he could stand this or not, but Jim gave him no choice. He slid his hand up Blair's throat and then around the back to knot his fingers gently in his tangled, wet hair. Holding Blair face to face with him, he rasped, "None of the rest of it matters, Sandburg. You know that. You taught me that a long time ago. Too damn late to back out now. You're stuck with me."

Once again the calm descended. Deeper, more profound each time Blair felt it enveloping his frightened soul. Sooner or later he would reach a point where it no longer left him at all, but in the meantime he would keep muddling along, doing the best he could, trusting Jim to point him in the right direction when he went a little astray. He held Jim's hand against his heart and laid his cheek against Jim's for a moment, raising his free hand to cradle Jim's head on the other side. "I know," he said softly, hearing the love and acceptance that warmed his voice. He straightened up again, moving with slow care, and Jim let him do it, dropping his hands. Blair immediately put one hand on Jim's shoulder. "So I just wanna see what we're dealing with before I toss you in the shower. You with me on this?"

"Do I have a choice?" Jim managed to grumble.

"No." Blair put his hand under Jim's chin and lifted his head so he looked squarely into his bruised face. Jim shut his eyes against the light as Blair touched the swelling on his jaw. "Probably help to get some ice on this, do you think?"

Jim shrugged a little.

"After the shower," Blair said, wondering in the back of his mind if he would be able to leave Jim long enough even to get to the ice machine. Well, maybe it wouldn't be a problem, he sighed to himself. Dump like this might not even have a machine. He released Jim's head so he could take his right hand and gently lifted it, looking at the abrasions around his wrist, then at the ones above his elbow. There was sand crusted around the broken flesh. Angry red bruises were just beginning to appear down the inside of his arm. His own voice sounded a million miles away to him when he spoke to Jim. "Did they have you - um, were you tied to a chair during all this?"

Jim shook his head.

"Standing up?" Blair tried hard not to see those ghastly phantasms, but they were so vivid, so close. Jim hung crucified in his mind, surrounded by mocking faces that were whiter than dead flesh, and redder than his own blood.

"I was standing up," Jim agreed quietly.

Blair took a deep breath, slowly, slowly, and let it out again just as slowly, seeing Jim before him now, needing him, instead of the unendurable image of Jim in agony, beyond his help forever. The past he could never take away. "The thing is -" He swallowed painfully and tried again. "The thing is, Jim, if you were supporting a lot of your weight from your arms, I'm afraid there could be circulatory damage or something."

Jim nodded seriously. His eyes opened for a moment to see Blair's face, and Blair prayed that Jim found what he needed there. Jim shut his eyes again, and carefully curled his right hand into a loose fist. "Feels -- all right," he whispered. He tried to do the same with his left hand and winced, sitting up straighter with a groan.

"Jim?" Blair asked, miserably. He lifted Jim's left arm carefully to look at the wrist. Perhaps the swelling was a little worse, but the cuts and bruises from the rope were so bad he couldn't tell for sure.

"Sprained, I think," Jim whispered. "It happened when I got away."

He opened his eyes and looked at Blair again, and when Blair saw what was in Jim's eyes and on his face, suddenly he was telling Jim, "They had better all be dead. Every last one of them. Because if they're not, I'll kill them myself, I swear I will."

"Hush," Jim murmured. He reached up with his right hand and cradled the back of Blair's neck, pulling him close. "It's all right, Chief. It's all over now."

Just for a moment Blair resisted the comfort of Jim's touch. He wanted to keep his rage, ugly, hot and bright as it was. It felt so dirty and good, like he could lose himself in it forever, never have to hurt again. But the impulse lasted only a moment. He wrapped his arms around Jim's shoulders, trying to avoid the worst bruises, and let himself talk about the pain instead. "This should not have happened," he whispered fiercely. "Never, not to you. Thinking about it just rips my heart in two, man. I wish I could be stronger and do the right thing, but this is all I've got. This is all I am."

"It's enough," Jim breathed, so softly Blair didn't exactly hear the words, but he felt them moving through his heart and mind as clearly as if Jim had spoken aloud. "It's all I need."

Blair remained still for a moment longer, drawing strength from Jim's touch, and then he straightened, pulling back, but he laid his hand on Jim's face, telling the truth with his palm and fingertips against Jim's cheek and temple, even while his voice said, "What you need is to get this sand washed off and some Neosporin on these cuts." He swallowed hard and then plunged on, while the power of Jim's words still emboldened him. "And these -- all these burns, Jim."

He put his hands on Jim's shoulders and looked at him. The traces of the agony that had taken his friend were drawn in streaks and dashes across his broad chest. He felt the spark of hatred again, but though the flame was as bright as ever, it was a little more distant now. Like jackals, they must have been. Vicious, brutal children, to have tried to destroy something so beautiful and strong. "What did they use on you, Jim?"

Jim met his eyes. "He was a professional," he said in a voice little louder than a whisper, but calm all the same. "Probably used to work in El Salvador. Maybe Guatemala or Chile, I don't know. Didn't give me a life story."

Blair actually felt the blood draining from his face. _Interesting,_ he thought distantly. _I always thought that was just a bad cliché._

"He had -" Jim gestured with one hand, palm up, as though trying to remember the score for a week-old Jags game. "-it made an electric shock. Like a cattle prod."

Blair held Jim's head in his hands, and didn't scream or weep or cry. He just bowed his head, trembling, and said in a voice that astonished him, "Do you think there could be neurological damage?"

Jim shrugged a little, his eyes glancing away, then back to Blair. He was still so calm and serious. "How would I know?" He smiled faintly, then drew a deep breath, slow and careful. "I doubt it. Don't think I could have gotten this far if there was." He knotted his hand in Sandburg's hair for a moment, pulling gently. "Not even for you, Chief."

Something gave way at last. Blair sank to the floor. He wrapped his arms around Jim's calves and laid his head on Jim's knees, and didn't try to say anything. He just held on. Jim ran his hand over Blair's tangled, sandy locks, gentle strokes, slow with tenderness and care, and said, rasping, "He's the only reason I'm still alive. The rest of them wanted to kill me on the spot." His hand continued to smooth over Blair's head, as he told Blair unbearable things. Blair squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on feeling all the love in that soft touch.

"How long did it go on?" Blair whispered at last, not raising his head.

"I don't know." A harsh sigh rattled in Jim's throat. He needed water, Blair thought. And food, and rest, needed to be warm and dry, not sitting naked and still covered with sand in a motel bathroom. "Is this Friday morning?" Jim asked.

Blair shuddered, holding on tighter. "Yes," he told Jim, hardly able to get the words out. "It's Friday."

"Thought so," Jim said. He was still stroking Blair's hair. His hoarse voice was thoughtful. "Only one night. I lost track."

There was no reason to ask the next question, but it slipped out anyway. "Why?"

Jim sighed and Blair said quickly, "Sorry, I guess it doesn't matter now." He lifted his head and looked up at Jim. Jim's hand rested easily against the base of his skull, palm curving to cradle his head.

"Wasn't a reason," Jim said, shrugging again. "He wanted to. I couldn't stop him."

"You shouldn't have been alone," Blair whispered miserably. "I'm so sorry, Jim. I knew something was wrong. I knew it. I should have been there."

"No!" The violence shocked both of them. "No," Jim said again, moving to hold Blair's head with both hands. "Don't -- say -- that. Don't think it, Chief. Ever."

Blair nodded quickly, but Jim was still restless and unhappy. His head came up and Blair could see his throat working, muscles tight in his jaw. "Jim, listen to me." Blair sat back and laid one hand gently on his knee. Jim's hands dropped to his shoulders, and he looked down at Blair a little reluctantly.

As though seeing him there, Blair thought with sudden, painful insight. In Jim's place, or at his side, being hurt as well. "Shh," he told Jim then. He reached up and touched Jim's face. "It didn't happen that way. You don't have to be afraid of that anymore."

 

* * *

 

 


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Didn't I promise you that? Didn't I promise?_

Jim's eyes widened for a moment, then closed again, and he nodded as well. "Oh man," Blair said softly, letting out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Let's -- um -- let's just finish up here and get you in the shower, all right?" He sat back a little farther and carefully lifted Jim's foot, looking again at the rope burns above the ankle, the spreading bruises, the cuts on his sole, crusty and dark with sand and blood. From what he could tell, the cuts weren't terribly deep, they looked like damage from broken shells and the sharp rocks above the beach. Not crippling, but likely to develop into trouble if he didn't get them cleaned and treated soon. The other foot was the same. He sat back on his haunches, looking up at Jim. "I think a doctor would tell you to take a couple of aspirin and call him in the morning," he said, trying to smile.

Jim gave a little grunt of something like amusement.

Blair's shoulders slumped in relief and he told Jim more seriously, "I'm not a doctor. I don't know. I'm trusting you to tell me if there's something I'm not seeing here."

Jim nodded again as Blair got slowly to his feet. "I wish I could just take it all away," Blair heard himself saying sadly and pointlessly. _Just shut the hell up,_ he told himself irritably, but that didn't work. Of course, it never had, even when his own best interests had been at stake. "But I can't. And I know the shower's probably going to really make all these cuts sting like anything." Jim watched him, trusting, silent. Blair wondered if Jim registered the understatement at all, or was merely accepting everything offered to him without judgement. "Just let me know if it gets bad. We'll figure out another way. I promise." He pulled Jim's head to his chest for a moment in reassurance, then let him go so he could reach over and turn on the water. It gushed out from the lower faucet, bouncing hollowly in the tub, and even the sound of it made Jim flinch violently.

_Oh god,_ Blair thought, turning the taps back until a gentle, lukewarm stream was running over his hands. He was gonna kill Jim like this. Maybe a bath would work better than a shower? Fill the tub first and then help Jim get in. He looked at the sand already collecting on the bottom of the tub from his own hands. _And then what, Sandburg? Just sort of splash the rest of the sand off Jim?_ That wasn't going to work, and he sure as hell couldn't scrub the sand off with the washcloth. It would be like flaying Jim with steel wool.

No way around a shower. They would just have to go slow and figure things out as they went. And try not to hurt Jim too badly in the process. He closed his eyes for a moment, then turned the knob between the hot and cold water taps. A gurgling sound seemed to run up the wall behind the tile, and then water began to trickle from the shower head. As he looked up at the nozzle, Blair noticed mold in the grout and around the fixtures, and wondered why he hadn't seen it before. He straightened up again, consciously aware he was getting slower each time, wondering if Jim noticed. And he was thirsty. The splash of water suddenly made him realize just how much, and in retrospect it was surprisingly obvious that if he were thirsty, Jim must be too. All this time, he thought miserably, and he hadn't so much as offered Jim a drink of water.

"Jim," he said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Hold on just a minute, OK?"

That same look of calm trust in Jim's eyes answered him. Blair touched Jim's face for a moment, fingers trailing across the unbruised side of his jaw, and then dashed into the next room to grab a plastic cup from the little tray by the sink. He wrestled with the maddening plastic wrap, the lightweight cup bending and crinkling under pressure that failed to tear the wrapping. Finally he tore it with his teeth and ripped it away, filled the cup half way full from the faucet and carried it back to Jim. Jim was sitting rigid, trembling with tension, his eyes fixed on Blair. "It's OK," Blair whispered. "Sorry. You needed this before, I know." He lifted Jim's hand and wrapped his fingers around the cup. "Just a sip."

Jim's hand was shaking so badly water splashed over the edges of the cup. He made no move to lift it toward his lips. "Jim, come on," Blair pleaded. "You need it."

Jim looked up, and Blair saw the grief and anger and fear in his shadowed eyes. Blair had been out of the room for thirty seconds. Less than that, maybe, certainly no more, and everything had begun to crumble again. "Oh, Jim," he whispered. He took the cup of water back and set it precariously on the side of the tub, then wrapped himself around Jim the best way he could manage in that awkward position, laying Jim's head against his sandy chest, wrapping his arms around Jim's shaking back. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. But it's going to get better." The endless litany of reassurance was sometimes hard to believe, but he forced himself to feel the faith he was trying to impart. Blair had no idea if it did any good, but he had to tell Jim anyway. "It is going to get better. Didn't I promise you that? Didn't I promise? However long it takes. It doesn't matter. I'll be right here. You know that. Jim, you know that. I promise."

Finally Blair released his hold enough to look into Jim's face. Jim's eyes had been shut tight, but he opened them a bit when Blair eased back. "The water?" he asked Blair, his voice less than a whisper.

"Right," Blair said, suppressing the tender urge to bend forward and kiss Jim's brow. He reached for the cup and once again helped Jim wrap his hands around it, but this time he left his fingers curled over Jim's as well while Jim lifted the drink to his mouth. Jim's eyes rolled up to meet Blair's and then he drank.

One swallow. A second. It must have tasted terrible. A tense little shiver ran down his back, and he pushed the cup away, shaking his head. "Is that all?" Blair asked. "You sure?"

There was a sour expression on Jim's face, like a child sulking after swallowing bitter medicine. It made Blair want to laugh, but his heart was breaking at the same time. "OK. Just little sips for now. And I'll get you some bottled water after the shower." He drained the rest of the cup himself and then tossed it back into the next room. "Yeah, it's pretty bad. Tastes like chlorine and the plastic cup and god knows what else, doesn't it? We'll get you something better."

The side of Jim's mouth that wasn't swollen and discolored lifted in a brief smile. His eyes flickered over Blair's shoulder and behind him, tracking something. Blair glanced back at the plastic cup lying on the floor in the next room next to the discarded piles of grit-drizzling clothes, and then smiled at him. "Comment on my housekeeping? C'mon, Jim. I'm paying for the room. I can throw what I want on the floor." He reached over and put the back of his hand under the sputtering stream coming down from the showerhead, trying to judge the temperature, trying to imagine how the water pressure would feel to Jim. "OK, OK, so I put the room on your card too. Don't worry. I'll pay you back." Even turned down this much, the water stung a little as it splashed on Blair's hand, and he saw and felt the way Jim flinched suddenly. Tiny water droplets splattering off Blair's hand were bouncing across the miniscule room to strike him. Even those hurt Jim. Oh god. What were they going to do?

"Just one step at a time," he told Jim, answering the question he hadn't asked out loud. "I don't know any other way."

Jim's eyes were bloodshot, streaming, hardly open against the light in little bathroom, but they watched Blair all the same, and that was trust in them, Blair knew it, not just resignation. Acceptance and belief -- belief in **him** \-- and as long as Jim looked at him that way, Blair could figure out anything, accomplish anything.

Even this damned shower.

"I've got an idea," Blair said. "Don't laugh." He grabbed one of the hand towels from the rack. Coarse and thin, just like the bath towels were. He thought about Jim trying to dry himself off with one of them and shook his head. But they were a long way away from that. He leaned in and turned the knob back around, so water was coming from the lower faucet once again. "Just an idea," he said again. "But it might make things a little easier."

Taking opposite corners of the thin towel, he reached up and knotted them over the showerhead, pulling tight. Then he did the same with the other two ends, completely swaddling the showerhead. When he turned the knob again, water came trickling through the cloth in a gentle stream. "There," he said, irrationally pleased with himself. "This is better, right?"

Jim nodded without even looking up. He reached for Blair, grasping his forearms and holding on tight. "Help me up," he said quietly.

"Wait a minute," Blair said. "Jim, hold on a sec." It was occurring to Blair that he hadn't really thought this through. What was he going to do -- push Jim in the shower and leave him there? For heaven's sake, the man couldn't stand up by himself. Even with the towel around the showerhead, the water was sure to be a terrible shock, and that was the last thing Jim could deal with in his condition. He needed shelter, support, safety. All the things only Blair could give him now.

Jim was still clutching Blair's forearms, though he had stopped trying to stand, waiting for Blair's guidance. Blair dropped his head until he touched Jim's forehead, and then he laughed softly. "Just don't tell Simon about this. I think he's suspicious enough as it is."

When he straightened up Jim rolled his eyes to look up at him. His eyes were smiling, a helpless response to Blair's laughter, even if he didn't understand it yet. "Just hold on to me," Blair said. "I don't want to end up on the floor either." He took Jim's hands and moved first one and then the other to his sides. "Hold on, OK?" he said again, feeling Jim's hands warm beneath his ribs. "And I am NOT ticklish," he added sternly. "So don't get any ideas."

God knew how he managed it, but somehow Jim contrived to look like an aggrieved innocent, though the expression on his face didn't change. _Must be in his eyes._ Blair bent his head and unfastened the top button on his own jeans, struggling with the half-dried, sand-encrusted denim. Then the zipper stuck, of course, but while he yanked angrily at the small, sharp-edged metal tab, Jim's hold remained firm and steady, even though the sand had to be hurting. Finally the zipper shifted and let go, sliding reluctantly. It got half way down, the teeth crunching on sand, before getting stuck again. Blair groaned. He tugged the zipper up part way, then down again, trying to ease it farther without using actual force. All he needed this morning. Break the goddamn zipper. Then he'd never get out of these jeans.

Jim puffed air out in an exhalation Blair felt against his stomach. "Problem there, Sandburg?"

 

* * *

 

 


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Blair must love your strength_

A joke. Jim was teasing him. Blair stopped fighting with the zipper and put both hands on Jim's face for a moment, smiling into his amused eyes. "Nothing I can't handle. And no, you still haven't convinced me that button fly jeans are the only kind a real man would wear."

He went back to wrestling with the zipper. He pulled it back as high as the button, then eased it down again, keeping a smooth, even pressure on it, and this time it went all the way. He heaved a little sigh of relief as he worked his hands under the waistband. Sand was everywhere, gritty, miserably uncomfortable, and it was a struggle getting the half-dried denim down over his hips. He wiggled a little, shoving down on one side and then the other, thinking how much this same chore must have hurt Jim. Without entirely realizing what he was doing he leaned forward so he could balance himself, his forehead pressed to Jim's shoulder.

Jim's careful hands still held him, warm and steady under his ribs. When Blair had gotten his jeans down to the tops of his thighs, he pushed his briefs down as well, thinking it felt good to get rid of at least one irritation. His underwear had been caked with sand inside and out. Another push, bending further, his head pressed harder to Jim's shoulder. When everything was shoved down in a sandy tangle as far as his knees, he braced himself with one hand on Jim's shoulder and lifted the opposite foot, stork-like, trying to step out. It didn't work as easily as he thought it would. "Going to end up on my butt," he muttered irritably, tethered by his own pants. He was beginning to feel ridiculous but he was so tired it made him angry instead of amused.

"Steady," Jim breathed quietly, and Blair stopped fighting. He took a deep breath, letting Jim's calm settle into his own outlook, then lifted his foot free and used it to push down the other pant leg. It was surprisingly easy to lift the second leg clear and with relief he kicked the wadded up pile of clothes to the side, just outside the door. For a moment before straightening up he paused and let his hand rest at the back of Jim's neck, the warmth under his palm a reflection of the twin spots on his sides where Jim was still holding him.

"So, here's the plan," Blair said. Jim was watching him carefully, so weary, but with his eyes still alight. Blair could see the trust and affection there -- a tinge of amusement, the warmth, the abiding love. Even now, when Jim had so little left to still call his own. "Gonna hustle you into the shower here, and get the sand washed off both of us." He grinned hard for a moment, then told Jim the truth, very quietly. "I'm afraid it's gonna hurt you. Maybe a lot. But I'll be right here. Just hold on to me, and we'll get through this together."

Jim nodded, his expression very serious and more than a little grim. His hands eased upward, then clamped hard onto Blair's shoulders. It seemed to Blair he could feel every muscle in the man's body tense for a moment, and then Jim dragged himself to his feet. Slowly, his hands bearing down so hard Blair swayed under the pressure, but he made it.

"I'm gonna get in first," Blair said, angling his back to the tub, drawing Jim forward the half step to its edge. "Then you hold on to me, and step in after. Nice and slow. No hurry." He gave Jim a quick embrace first, standing on tiptoe to press his cheek against Jim's, and then stepped over the side of the bathtub. It was shallower on the inside than it looked from without, and for an instant Blair felt oddly disoriented, not quite staggering, but feeling as though he might lose his balance if he weren't careful.

The water seeping through the hand towel dripped on his shoulder and ran down his back, dislodging salt and sand in an irritating trickle. It would have felt so wonderful to turn the faucets up all the way, let the shower beat down on him, wash away all the sand in a strong, hot torrent of water. That wasn't an option for him, and he dismissed the longing with impatience for its selfishness. He steadied his hands on Jim and said, "Just hold onto me, and you can step right over."

 

* * *

Jim kept his eyes shut tight as he lifted one bruised foot and stepped in with trembling care. It was going to be bad, he realized instantly. Even worse than Blair had warned him.

He couldn't even feel the spray from the wrapped showerhead, but there was a little standing water at the back of the tub where he stepped in. Lukewarm, maybe a quarter of an inch deep, probably less. And it burned. Oh, it burned. All the little scrapes and cuts on the sole of his feet were writhing into life as the water touched them. Like worms burrowing upward, working their way through flesh and bone and blood, leaving fire in their wake. Jim made a sound, it couldn't have been a scream, he didn't have the strength or voice for that, just a groan, and he flinched, deep and hard, recoiling into himself, even though he knew he couldn't retreat. Blair wanted him to do this, so it didn't matter how badly it hurt. His hands tightened on Blair's shoulders. No other way now. There never had been. Blair was saying something that he couldn't understand and couldn't stop to listen to. He pulled his other foot over the edge of the tub and set it in the shallow water.

Then his head dropped forward, and he wept.

Blair's hands.

They had been holding Jim's upper arms, gripping hard, trying to support and balance him. But he felt them move, first one going to his side, high up, over his ribs, then the other. That hand was wet from the shower, and the wet sand hurt, but beyond it was Blair's touch, so he yielded willingly to the pain, as he had so often since Blair had found him, accepting it in order to find the soul-deep comfort that lay beyond.

Against his back now, first one hand and then the other, and Blair's sandy, wet forearms were pressed hard to his ribs. The wounds in his feet burned, distracting him, but Blair was pulling closer, talking to him all the while, and the closer he came, the farther everything else receded. "Hold me, Jim." Blair's words, suddenly clear, so calm, soothing like his touch. "Put your arms around me and hold on."

Jim realized he had been afraid to let go, afraid or too distracted by the pain. He still clutched the tops of Blair's shoulders, fingers digging into muscle and clutching bone as though he feared Blair would slip away from him if he loosened his grip for an instant. No. Afraid that he himself would slip away, and he would, lost forever in a salty wasteland. Hurt, abandoned, alone.

But that wasn't going to happen, and he knew it, better than he knew his own lost strength. Blair was here. Blair would catch his very soul if it fell. He relaxed his desperate grip, and heard the way Blair's soothing litany was broken for an instant by a groan of pain Blair couldn't swallow quickly enough.

He'd been hurting him. Blair. He'd been hurting Blair. Ah god, was there no betrayal beneath him? He froze, unable to come closer, and no more able to push Blair away. The pain rose again, the fire in his bruised feet only the sharpest and closest, but it was all with him at once, and it was so much stronger than he could ever be.

"Jim!" Blair's voice whispered, but violent all the same. "Damn it, Jim." Laughing, crying, on the edge of hysteria, and the only sane voice Jim had ever known. Blair was pulling hard, hurting a little in his insistence. "Come _on_ , man, don't tell me you're going to pull a stunt like this now. Not after so much. Jim, **please**."

Jim had never refused that voice. He couldn't possibly fight against it now. He yielded, allowing Blair to pull him closer, though there was a frightened core of resistance still in his darkest heart of hearts. And what a black irony it was, Jim thought, trembling with pain and grief. Allowing his torturer every secret of his soul, and trying to keep Blair away. He didn't have enough strength to cry aloud, but he wanted to.

Blair was the one who had strength and breath enough for speech. His arms were wrapped tight around Jim's back, and when he spoke, his breath was warm above the hollow of Jim's throat. "Damn your stubborn hide, Jim. For the last time, put your arms around me and _hold on_."

Jim did what Blair wanted him to do. Carefully and slowly, as though his arms weren't entirely his own and might lash out without his volition, he wrapped them around Blair's shoulders and pulled him closer. Blair groaned again, this time in relief, and his body relaxed against Jim's even as he supported their combined balance. Blair's forehead pressed against his throat, the solid curve of bone warm and unyielding. Blair's chest was against his own, and Blair's arms were wrapped solidly around his back, trying to shelter Jim with his body. Jim's groin was pressed against Blair's belly, his knees against the muscles knotted in Blair's thighs.

But there was a price to pay for the shelter, there always was. His arms around Blair's shoulders were too close to the shower head. Even muffled by the towel, stray droplets splashed free to strike him every now and again. He felt those drops of water against his wrists and forearms like hot ashes blown on the wind, burning when they touched flesh.

That was where Blair wanted him to go. Under the showerhead, into the heart of the inferno, and Jim did not know if he could bear it. Already he could do nothing but curl himself more tightly around Blair. Sand and dirt, salt and sweat, even their blood and their tears pressed gritty and inescapable between their bodies as Jim wrapped himself closer.

"That's right," Blair was murmuring. His breath heated Jim's flesh, and the salty film burned with the damp heat, a molten second skin. "All right, just like that. That wasn't so bad, was it? Just gonna take it one step at a time."

Jim couldn't help himself. He tensed, afraid Blair meant it literally and was about to step back, pulling him into the spray. Blair's arms tightened around his back in response, and a stab of memory came between them, sharper than any knife, bleeding away Blair's warmth and leaving only the pain in its wake.

His eyes squeezed shut, Jim saw the man who had destroyed him, felt again those hands on his face, on his body. Burning with cold, leaning in ever closer to take everything he could from Jim. And Jim hadn't been able to stop him. He'd permitted that monster his feast, watched his lean and hungry psyche growing fat on Jim's own soul. It went on and on, long after Jim believed he had anything left his torturer could take from him. But there was always something left, always something new for him to claim.

One terrible moment spun out of the tide of memory and wrapped itself around him. He'd been falling endlessly, not even knowing whether the shocks were still raging through his broken body, or if it was just the memory of the pain and the helplessness that kept him twitching and flinching against the rough boards. Their splintered edges were so sharp on his back they drove him forward to find the oblivion of the shocks, but they were always there to catch him when he fell back into their waiting thorny embrace. He hovered between the two, agony merging everything into that infinite fall from grace and light and self.

Then he'd felt the hands on him, and knew. This part was worse than the pain. Hot hands massaging his shoulders in a monstrous parody of concern. That hissing, accented voice caressing the words as obscenely as his hands touched Jim. "Blair must love your strength."

Jim heard the sounds that came from his own throat, answering the horror of Blair's name on his torturer's lips.

"But what would Blair think, if he could see you like this? All that strength..." his voice dropped, and one hand caressed him with rough intimacy, touching flesh, denim, then flesh again, Jim's stomach quivering under the touch he could not escape. "Doesn't help you now, does it? Really doesn't do you any good at all. Did it ever?" Calm speculation, as calculated to hurt as the shocks, merely another instrument of the trade. "Do you think maybe Blair knew all along?"

 

* * *

 

 


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He would take his death, if they wouldn't give it to him_

Jim's eyes flew open, and he found himself looking at ceramic tiles, an uneven off-white expanse sprinkled with dull gold sparkles. Water spilled down through a knotted towel, and Blair was in his arms, holding on tight, not letting go. Blair's strength. That was the strength that mattered, and the man with the flat brown eyes had never discovered it, no matter how deep he burrowed, no matter how much he pried away. He couldn't have understood, even if he had seen it.

Jim clenched his hands into fists at Blair's back. "Sandburg." His voice rasped. Blair's half-dried hair was in his face, reeking of the ocean.

"Right here, Jim." Gentle love in his voice. Endless, boundless affection and care. "I've got you. What is it?"

"He had it wrong." Jim heard himself, and it sounded like a moan. He broke off, wanting to say it better, more clearly.

Patience wasn't one of Blair's virtues. His voice was gentle but insistent, like his arms around Jim's back, locked tight, holding him there, supporting him with all his strength so Jim wouldn't have to do it alone. "Who got it wrong? I don't understand."

Jim rubbed his cheek against Blair's head a little too hard, the pressure of Blair's skull uncomfortable against his bruised jaw, the tangle of sandy, half-wet hair scraping his cheek, but still, underneath it all, that necessary blessed release from the pain. "He thought it meant something." In another moment, Blair would lead him back into the water. And he could do it, Jim thought with a kind of calm astonishment. Blair had been right all along. "Breaking me," Jim whispered. "He thought it would be difficult. Some kind of accomplishment."

Blair moaned, a heartbroken sound pulled from his own anguish at what Jim had suffered. Jim felt him gasp violently for breath, heard the protest rising before Blair could even voice it.

"No," Jim said, and held him more gently, lifting one hand to cradle the back of Blair's head. They had to get this sand washed out. His palm burned as Blair shook his head in clumsy denial. "No," Jim said. "Listen to me."

Blair silenced himself at once and waited, still holding Jim tight. His breaths snuffled against Jim's throat as he waited. It took a while. Jim was exhausted and hurting, and talking took energy he had expended a long time ago. He could still taste the chlorine and the taint of plastic from that cup of water at the back of his tongue, and his throat was raw with brine. He knew he must have swallowed a lot of water out there in the sea but he didn't remember it clearly. Even though it had been nearly a day since he had eaten last, he felt only an abiding queasiness at the mere thought of food. It was the least of his concerns.

"He never figured it out," Jim managed to say at last. "Didn't matter what he did to me. You were my life. You were my strength." Blair was holding him so tightly that Jim lifted his other hand as well, holding Blair's trembling head, the errant droplets from the shower utterly inconsequential, even as they fell on Jim's arms, seeming to hiss against the sensitive flesh. "And he couldn't touch you." Jim wanted to say the words out loud, clear and strong, make them real that way. "He never will," he insisted, as loudly as he could.

"No," Blair agreed in a hoarse voice, and Jim remembered all the times this night Blair had wished he could have taken Jim's place. He didn't say that now, though. "He couldn't touch us. No one can touch us. You know that." He laughed gently, one hand patting Jim's back. "Takes me a little while to figure things out sometimes, but you've known all along."

He felt Blair sigh, then, and it was a long, deep breath. Jim was beginning to recognize that sound. Blair steeling himself for another tremendous effort, another battle that would take more than he had to offer. But he would do it anyway, for Jim, and Jim understood. "It's all right," he said, putting his arms around Blair's shoulders again and closing his eyes. "I'm ready."

Blair's arms tightened. "Just hold on to me, and we'll do this a little bit at a time. And if it gets too bad, tell me, and we'll do it another way."

Jim nodded grimly, not sparing the energy to speak out loud. Besides, there was nothing he could say. He'd figured out a long time ago there was no other way, save to go straight through the heart of the pain. But Blair was holding him, and Blair's desperate desire to shield him from hurt was more important than the fact he couldn't.

"OK," Blair was saying softly, talking to himself as much as Jim. "Concentrate on me. Ignore everything else as much as you can." Jim felt him slide one foot backward, the press of Blair's thigh against his own becoming less and less, and instinctively he slid his own foot forward as well, trying to keep that contact.

He felt smooth enamel under the sole of his foot, the thinnest film of lukewarm water. Then the grit of sand, and an outline limned in dirt on the floor of the bath, the faint tackiness of adhesive left behind from a long-gone anti-slip decal. It was in the shape of a flower, Jim thought with absurd irrelevance, trying to distract himself from the way the slight roughness caught at the wounds on his feet. Would have been orange and yellow, maybe avocado green. He pulled back from the sensation, afraid that he _could_ tell what color it had been if he let himself follow the feeling too far, and the knowledge of how lost he could become frightened him because he was still so close to that edge of madness.

He was close enough at last for the soft spray of water from the showerhead to run over his arms where he was holding Blair so tightly. It trickled over the abrasions on his wrists and arms, and the scream torn from his throat hurt him as much as everything else. His knees buckled, and he felt Blair stagger, clutching harder, trying to support both of them.

"Blair, please --" He was trying not to talk out loud. It hurt him, and he knew his cries of pain were hurting Blair as well, but he couldn't stop them. That control had been ripped from him long ago. "Oh god, Blair. Oh, Christ." The agony of it sliced through him, pain spiking as though it were happening all over again. Coarse ropes chewing flesh, the weight of his own body hurting him as he struggled, but he couldn't lie still, even though he had surrendered long before. Every shock forced him again into the agonizing fight, the battle he'd already lost so many times. And every time left him weaker than before. More of the universe rushed through, howling, and he couldn't stop it. Couldn't even summon the strength to try, and then while he hung there, worse than dead, the pain came again. And again. And again --

"Jim."

Blair's soft voice, aching with love. "Jim, I'm here. You don't need to fight anymore."

_Blair, help me_

He was falling. His knees had buckled and he was hanging on Sandburg the way he'd hung on the splintered latticework, hurting and helpless and so afraid. The pain broke everything. Nothing left to hope for but death, and the bastard with the flat brown eyes wouldn't kill him clean. Taken everything, and then didn't even have the decency to clean up his own goddamned mess when he was through. The pain arced through Jim. He felt his body drawn taut as a bow, every muscle straining in agony. The moment of release was terrible. He staggered and realized he was free, and there was heat pressed against him, a warm head against his shoulder.

He would take his death, if they wouldn't give it to him. He knew the ocean was near, because the roar of the surf carried every other sound on this howling planet to him. A memory came to him from another lifetime. He remembered skimming over the surf, free and alive. It wasn't too late. The sea could still free him. All he had to do first was shake himself free of the damnable weight dragging at his arm. The evil son of a bitch clung to him still, insisting that Jim live, even while he died himself. His blood smelled like bath water, splashing over Jim's hurting wrists, and the sand was everywhere, burning, grating, rolling sharp-edged between their bodies.

Jim growled like an animal. He heard the grumble rising from his throat, and it hurt, but it felt good too. The man Jim Ellison was gone, just an encumbrance to him, but the heart still beat, the lungs still dragged gulps of salty, burning air. It would take bestial strength to stop that heart and empty those lungs for the final time. Or the infinitely unforgiving embrace of the ocean where he had been happy once, in that distant lifetime. He couldn't be happy or alive again, but he could find freedom.

He tore his other arm free from the trellis, the weakened boards cracking and snapping, and fell in a heap, dragged to the ground by the weight of his dying tormentor. There was blood and pain everywhere, and the man with the flat brown eyes was still bound to him. He'd become a monstrous double, the other half of who Jim was, forcing him to cling to life even while his own blood ran down the broken board that had punched through his throat.

Then the man died. Jim heard his heart stop.

And it didn't matter. It didn't change anything. Jim screamed in rage, and heard the sound echo off the planking at the side of the beach house and bounce back to him, a cry no more purposeful than the bewildered howl of a hurt dog, dragging himself away to die, screaming because it didn't have the sense to know the universe simply didn't care.

"Jim!"

Something spoke out of the maelstrom. Someone had heard. Jim shook his head groggily, but didn't dare open his eyes. The pain was so raw, so fresh, that he didn't know for sure what he would find if he looked. Maybe he would still be lying under the deck, sprawled in an ungainly embrace with death and only imagining the sound he wanted to hear most.

"Jim, please." The voice was breaking, shattered with sorrow. "Please, I can't do this alone. I need you."

Jim knew that voice, and the pain in it was more important than his own. He opened his eyes and looked into his salvation, pressed closer to him than even the despair had been. His hands had fallen away from Blair, and he brought them up slowly, tracing the warm, solid shape keeping him upright, redefining his own presence by the strength he found there. At last he clutched Blair's head in both hands, holding him still so he could gaze into those frightened blue eyes and be sure Blair knew he was telling the truth. "I'm right here, Chief. It's all right. I've got you."

Blair's eyes closed for a moment, and when they opened again they were fogged with relief. "Aw, Jim," he was whispering over and over again. "Oh man, Jim. Oh man."

Jim's left elbow hurt with a blank, aggravating ache. But there was nothing tied to this pain. He was bewildered when it triggered nothing in his treacherous psyche, rotten with memories like landmines. And the shower tiles were cold against his back. When had that happened?

He patted Blair's face in clumsy reassurance, feeling the bristle of day-old whiskers and the burn of the sand, and tried to understand what he had done. They were turned sideways in the tub, and Blair was bracing him against the side of the shower. With dull shame, Jim realized he must have begun thrashing under the stream of water and banged his elbow on the tile wall, and he had no memory of that at all, only the refreshed vision of his final despair. Blair had pushed him up against the wall to keep him from falling, and used his voice and heart to catch Jim's mind as it fell within. Jim still felt stray droplets from the showerhead, but his wrists were no longer under the stream. They burned at the memory though, and from the salt newly washed into them. Everything seemed to be moving too fast, just out of his reach. Blair hadn't stopped talking, and it took Jim a while longer to figure out what he was saying.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know it would be so bad. Jim, please forgive me. We'll figure out another way. I'm sorry." Nearly breathless with desperation, Blair was shaking with the effort of holding Jim upright, his footing a matter of luck in the slippery tub.

Jim did the only thing he could. He tried hard for a smile. He felt the laugh lines crinkle around his eyes, but his mouth hurt too much to finish the expression. He hoped it was enough for Blair anyway. "No way to take a shower, Chief, without getting under the water."

 

* * *

 

 


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As though a soul in hell had been granted voice_

Sandburg just stared at him, and the look in his eyes was so wild Jim wondered for an instant if he had even spoken the words he meant out loud, or if something wholly different had emerged, perhaps just incomprehensible noise, animal grunts of pain. "Blair," he said, closing his eyes and concentrating, trying hard to listen to the sounds he was making and to make sense of them himself. He felt the breath of voice rattling between his vocal chords and felt the sound waves moving through the bones in his face, a terrifying degree of awareness. If he concentrated like that for long, he would forget how to talk altogether.

But his voice was true, rasping and broken as it was. Blair's name. He heard it clearly, and he opened his eyes again and saw Blair had heard him too. "Jim," he said. "I don't want to hurt you any more. I don't think I can stand it."

"Already told you," Jim whispered. "You make the pain go away."

"Jim," Blair spoke without breath, only moving his lips. He laid his arms on Jim's shoulders and eased him forward and around again, closer to the water. "Here, easy," he breathed, and pulled Jim another step closer. His elbows were on Jim's shoulders, his arms clasped around the back of Jim's neck. He let his forehead rest against the curve of Jim's neck, and waited for Jim to take the next step himself.

Carefully, knowing the danger, Jim wrapped his own arms around Blair in turn. Water from the showerhead was streaming down Blair's back. The tepid water ran over Jim's wrists and arms as well, and where it washed over his flayed skin, the pain was unendurable. Salt and sand scraped his wounds raw, and the ache bored through flesh like a dull needle all the way to the bone, scraping, and scraping, inexorably down to the marrow.

He kept his arms clamped around Blair's shoulders though the agony threatened to destroy everything. The lukewarm trickle of water through a knotted hotel towel rocked his tenuously regained sanity to the very core. _Dear god,_ he thought, despairing. To have suffered so much, to have survived so much, and to have it all end like this. His jaws were clamped too tightly to scream, but someone was moaning. He could hear the low sound echoing off the tile walls. Horrifying, wholly lost, utterly hopeless, as though a soul in hell had been granted voice.

Blair's arms were loosening, easier around his trembling shoulders, and slowly pulling back. Who could blame him for wanting to get away? If he could have done it, Jim would have fled as well. He sagged helplessly against Blair, though he wanted to release him, and felt the wet sand grinding between them, a razor-lined blanket separating their bodies. Yet even if Blair had really been wrapped in the barbed wire it felt like as their chests slipped against each other, Jim knew he would not have been able to let go. That was always Blair's decision, the choice had been taken from Jim a long time ago.

But Blair didn't leave. Instead he reached up and laid one hand on the back of Jim's head and gently pulled him forward into the stream, talking to him all the while. Jim heard the drone of sound as his head was eased down onto Blair's shoulder and closer to the trickle that was landing on his arms. The water fell like mallets, smashing away sense and reason and everything Jim had ever called his own. Everything except this, Blair's small warm hand, sandy and wet, fingers carefully spread over Jim's skull.

"Let's just try it, OK?" Like the view through a camera lens suddenly coming into focus, all at once Jim could hear sense as well as sound in Blair's voice. Shuddering against Blair, moaning still, he wondered distantly what Blair wanted him to try, and why on earth Blair thought he would be capable of anything but clinging, and suffering, and crying out loud because he wasn't strong enough to bear it in silence.

"Hey, Jim, come on now. Are you even listening to me?" A paper-thin facade of annoyance that didn't fool Jim any more than it had been intended to. "Work with me here. This is important." The hand on the back of Jim's head bore down a little harder, keeping his cheek against Blair's shoulder with tender pressure. "You feel this? You feel how close we are? That's all that matters, right? I'm right here. I'm holding you, and you're holding me, as close as we can get. Jim, are you even listening to me?"

Jim was listening, but he hurt too badly to answer. He could only hold on, shaking in pain and despair, as Sandburg asked the impossible of him. "It's time to stop fighting now," Blair said. "Accept the pain, accept everything. Don't try to push anything away."

_No,_ Jim thought. _Blair, please. No more. No more._

"I can feel it," Blair pressed on ruthlessly, though his voice shook. "You're still fighting. It's not gonna work like that." His hand spread against the back of Jim's head, warm as the blessing of his affection. "Do you trust me?"

Jim heard the way he answered Blair. The moan changed only in timbre, because words were far more than he could manage while the water was beating down on him. Just a cry of frightened denial, because Blair was asking too much of him. He trusted Blair with his heart, his life, his very soul. But Jim couldn't trust himself any more. Maybe never again.

"Jim, I know you do. You always have. So trust me now. There's no enemy here, not even in your own head, so you've got to stop fighting. Let go." His voice was gentle, and Jim was tired, and hurt so much he couldn't imagine being able to fight anything. He opened his eyes, his head still resting on Blair's shoulder, and saw a tangle of hair, Blair's flesh, his own arms around Blair's back. The white tile was blinding in the near distance, the little gold stars sparkling like broken shards of glass, sharp and unfriendly.

Surely Blair was wrong. He wasn't fighting. How could he be? He couldn't remember ever fighting, not after they had beaten him to the ground the first time. They had dragged him over to the lattice and tied him up, and he had just hung there and let them cut out his heart and mind piece by ragged piece. He remembered the sound of the rain pattering down on the sand beyond the deck of the beach house. Cold at his back, stinging. The roar of the surf growing louder and louder.

_No._ He closed his eyes tightly for a moment. No, he couldn't go there again. He wouldn't. He had to be strong, for Blair's sake, if he couldn't manage it for his own.

Had he spoken out loud? Blair's hands moved, one spread wide sliding gently over his shoulder blades, the other still holding his head, and he told Jim, "Shhh, no, listen to me. You don't have to be strong any more. I've got you now, and I'm not going to let go. Haven't you figured that out by now?"

Jim opened his eyes again. Pain fogged his vision. Or perhaps it was the sweat rolling down his forehead, or the tears rising now that he could do nothing to stop them. The gold stars dazzled him, glistening through the film of water. They seemed to be getting larger, expanding to overtake the white background.

"Jim," Blair murmured, "Jim, it's time to open the last door. You don't need to keep anything locked up any more. It's safe. There's not a whole helluva a lot I can do for you, but I can do this. It's all right. It's safe. I love you, and you're safe now, I promise."

With a gasp, Jim let go and fell forward into a field of gold. Head over heels, tumbling on and on until he found himself on his feet again, and there it was, the door Blair had been so insistent he open. Jim hadn't even known it was there, though it must have been all along. A little door set low in a garden wall, yellow roses twining above it and the Red Heron brand fishhooks poster tacked to boards that sun and weather had bleached white.

Jim reached out, and the thorns scratched the back of his hand. Startled by the pain he drew back, putting his bleeding knuckles to his mouth. Surely it would be better to leave the door shut. There was precious little he had left to call his own any more. He hadn't realized he had anything at all, but here it was, beyond the crumbling garden wall, still carefully guarded. How had he managed to keep it protected even though his tormenter had tainted everything else he used to define himself? The man with the flat, dead eyes had pulled open Jim's heart, digging with pain and words until he exposed everything, and then laid those reeking hands upon his love for Blair; what could be more important than that? Yet here it was, the only piece of himself still unsullied, still private, still his own. And Blair wanted him to let that go as well.

So he would. Jim reached out again, more cautiously this time. Blood was beading on the back of his hand, so darkly red his skin seemed all the whiter. His fingers trembled as he worked the latch that held the door shut. It was just a loop of badly weathered leather and a peg of wood, and it should have slid free easily.

Where was Blair? Jim couldn't get the latch open on his own. The twist of leather burned his fingertips, and he was getting splinters in his hand from the wood. When he began to lose his temper, frustrated by his own clumsiness, his hand slipped and he scratched himself on the climbing roses again. "Oh come on, Chief," he grumbled. "You wanna give me a break here?"

He lifted his hand to look at the new scratches, and what he saw drove all concerns about thorns from his mind. Chains were looped around each wrist so tightly the links bit into muscle and bruised the bone beneath. His fingertips were beginning to tingle from the lack of blood. He turned, his back to the garden door, looking for the enemy who had bound him this way, but he saw nothing but a rolling green meadow spreading out before him and the woods in the distance.

If his enemy were anywhere near he must be there, crouching in the shadows of the great oaks and hemlocks half a mile away. Jim's hands clenched into fists, and the chains bit deeper, pain spiking a warning. He yanked his hands apart, snapping the chain taut between his wrists, ignoring the crippling pain in his desperation to break free. The chains only tightened further, tension digging them into his flesh like a choke collar that wouldn't loosen back out again. Nothing he could do brought him closer to release, and he knew the only hope left was if Blair could help him. Jim tried to back up another step, but the garden door was behind him. There was nowhere to go, and Blair wasn't by his side.

He looked down at his hands again. Rust stained his wrists and forearms orange, and not all the blood on his hands was from the rose thorns. A thin stream flowed down from his wrists, spreading across the backs of his hands, trickling around his knuckles and down his fingers. The more he tried to free himself, the thicker and darker the stream became. Drops pattered down on the path around him, splattering on the fallen leaves.

 

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	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nothing I hate more than getting caught in the rain_

The leaves from the climbing rose were speckled black, curling brown at the edges, and they lay on the ground around the garden gate as thickly as a new snowfall. The rose was dying. Jim's head snapped up as a bitter and utterly irrelevant memory suddenly claimed him. His mother's roses. She hadn't been gone a month before his father had brought in the new landscapers, had the bushes all yanked up, and planted the formal boxwood parterre instead. What a relief that was, he had told Jim and Stephen. Damned things were always infested and diseased. Should have been dug up years ago. Some things just weren't worth the trouble, no matter how beautiful they were. Cut your losses, he'd advised Jim with the solemnity of passing on a great truth of life.

"Sandburg, where the hell are you?" Jim groaned. His wrists hurt so badly, and he desperately wanted to talk. Run a few things past Blair, get his take on them. Like this childish lament. His mother had always spent more time on the roses than she ever did on Jim and Stephen, so why had he grieved so when they were destroyed? It made no sense. Unless it had been the idea that if they could be dug up and thrown away, anything at all could become too inconvenient to want to bother with any more.

Then something moved. Jim saw a flicker in the grass, far, far away down the meadow, the ends of the grass moving as something unseen passed between them. Jim pulled harder at his chained wrists, and this time the pain sent him to his knees. Shaking, he huddled against the garden door, his jaws clenched against the pain. He heard how ragged his breaths were. The pounding of his heart and the throb between his temples were more distracting than the pain; intense as it was, it was an old acquaintance. He couldn't make himself focus on the disturbed place in grass, and he couldn't force himself to listen to the sounds the unseen thing made as it crept closer.

He looked down again at the heavy links wound over his wrists. If he could just free himself he wouldn't feel so helpless. His hands had gone numb, his fingers clumsy and useless. Blood still dripped down, slippery under the chains, mingling with flaking rust that he felt moving along his skin like grains of sand. _C'mon, Sandburg,_ he thought. _Please._ He twisted his neck around to look at up the leather hasp he hadn't been able to open, and suddenly knew the truth. He hadn't wanted to open it. This was his, dammit, all he had left, and he didn't want to give up on it. He didn't have to let it go too, no matter what anyone else said.

No matter what Blair said.

That thought took the last of his strength. Too weak even to kneel, he slipped sideways until he was curled on the low stoop below the door, guarding it still. He didn't need Sentinel hearing to make out the rustle in the grass. The tops of the grass waved even when the wind stopped, and once he thought he saw a flash of white between the moving stalks. Lying on the ground before the garden wall, he tried to lift his head because he couldn't give up, not entirely, not yet. Perhaps it was just because of the long slope of the hill and the way the sea of green moved so softly when the breeze began again, but he had no idea how close his enemy was. Groaning, he managed to get one elbow under himself, pushing himself up against the locked door, trying to see. The pressure on his shackled wrists made his vision go bloody and dark at the edges.

He dropped his head back, hitting the wooden planks behind him, and the clean, dull pain of that allowed him to focus for an instant. The grass parted as the wind blew, and he saw the long white form between the waving stalks. A man, almost prone. Dragging himself through the grass, trying to get to Jim. Long hair hung down, hiding his face.

Jim felt the rusting shackles around his heart, drawn tight with shame. The agony didn't stop him from rolling to his knees, then staggering to his feet. He fell back against the locked door, waiting for his head to clear enough to remain upright.

That locked door. Jim had been jealously guarding his last secrets here, while Blair dragged himself naked and alone across that endless field.

Jim heard himself screaming in rage and despair. He pushed himself away and tried to run, but he was weak and hurting, and his bound wrists made him clumsy. He fell and rolled twice, three times, coming to rest on his side, his arms held stiffly before him, the pain racing through his veins like a fire. _Hold on, Sandburg. I'm coming, just hang on for me._ He knew he wasn't speaking the words out loud, but they played over and over again in his mind, a mantra of desperation and the only hope he had left. He rolled again, getting his knees under himself, using his blood-soaked, numbed hands to push himself up until he was kneeling up high enough to look for Blair.

The broken stalks of grass under his knees had a heavy, sweet smell, fecund and green. He could scent Blair as well, but his smell was close to the grass and the earth, subtly entwined, almost inseparable from it. Other scents rose, confusing him, and he shook his head, trying to keep his sense of Blair at the fore. The smell of blood rising from his own arms, and the acrid bite of salt were closer, with the clean coolness of moving water in the background. A storm was coming. Jim could feel the crackle in the air before the light began to change and thicken with its imminence.

Somehow Jim was on his feet again, lurching forward, trying to run. The grass burned his bare feet, and thunder cracked in the distance and rumbled forward, seeming to bring with it the hot, wet gust of the storm. He could smell the yellow roses he'd left behind him.

He fell again, and he was going so fast and the slope of the hill was so steep that he rolled half a dozen times before he brought up hard. He had to lie still for a moment, panting, trying to control the wrenching ache that spread up from his arms. The sky was dark, storm clouds marching across the heavens.

Jim rolled to his side, and there was Blair, huddled in the grass just a short distance away. He was curled on his side, his knees drawn up, watching Jim carefully. His eyes were open wide, and they looked almost gray in the light of the coming storm.

Crawling awkwardly, Jim made his way across the remaining distance until he could no longer bear the weight on his wrists, then he forced himself to his knees and got to his feet. He stumbled forward a dozen steps before falling again. But he was close at last. He inched nearer, and Blair smiled a sleepy, groggy little half-grin, as though he had just this moment awakened from a long nap, and was pleased to find Jim so close. He reached out for him, and Jim saw his forearm was scratched and stained from the grass. Blair's fingers twined with his own.

Jim couldn't speak. He lay beside Sandburg there in the grass, their foreheads nearly touching. Blair's eyes were open, intent on Jim. With his free hand, the hand that wasn't holding Jim's, Blair reached down and covered as much of the rusting, bloodstained shackles as he could. Even that faint pressure was agony against Jim's lacerated flesh. He gasped, a little hiccup of pain, and desperately tightened his grip on Blair's fingers. Tensing his muscles that way made the metal links bite even deeper into bruised muscles.

"Jim," Blair said, faint reproach in his voice, but so gentle, soothing all the same. "Haven't we already been through this a million times?" He raised his hand and brushed Jim's forehead with the tips of his fingers. Forgiveness. Reassurance. Blessing. "Please let me help you."

Even then Jim wasn't sure he understood, but he nodded all the same, blinking back tears. Blair smiled at him, though his eyes were bright too, and when Jim finally relaxed his desperate grip, Blair took his chained wrists in both hands, cradling them gently. Then he curled forward and laid his cheek against the rusting links, his hair falling like silk across Jim's trembling, blood stained fingers. Jim looked at the bowed head so close to his own chest, and then lifted his eyes to glance at the lowering heavens above them.

The air smelled of rain and broken grass, and very faintly, still, of the roses. Blair was whispering something that was muffled against Jim's hands. He was holding his bound hands so carefully, but even that faint, tender pressure hurt Jim. He felt every beat of Sandburg's pulse echoing through the chains and thundering against the bone. He was afraid he couldn't stand it another moment, but he was more afraid Blair would pull away. The comfort and the pain were tearing Jim apart. He shuddered, clenching his jaw hard so not a sound would escape him, but it didn't fool Blair for a second. He curled closer to Jim, holding his hands more firmly in his own, rolling his head forward a little so that his lips touched Jim's knuckles as he spoke, loudly and clearly enough for Jim to understand him at last.

"Oh dammit, Jim, don't you know there's nothing I hate more than getting caught in the rain?"

Jim was surprised into a low, harsh chuckle. It slipped past all the boundaries and escaped into the still, moisture-laden air, an odd bark of sound that didn't seem to have come from his throat, and which hardly sounded like amusement, for that matter, but it was enough. Far away, behind him up the slope of the hill, he heard the sound of leather untwisting, of rusting nails pulling free from weathered boards.

"Blair," he murmured to the head bowed over his hands. He knew what was happening now. "Thank you." Lightning reached for the earth, jagged bolts tearing down across the horizon. Thunder rolled ceaselessly. It still hadn't begun to rain. It wouldn't until the garden door swung open.

Jim couldn't help it. He tensed, unable to banish all the fear on his own, and he couldn't help but be afraid of what was about to happen. Blair felt it, and he curled closer to Jim, pulling Jim's shacked hands against his own chest, and pressing his face to the hollow of Jim's neck and shoulder. He put his leg over Jim's thigh, as though trying to shelter him from the storm, and said in a soft low voice Jim felt humming against his throat, "I've got you, Jim. Let go."

 

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	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A pristine white beach in the heat of mid afternoon_

Up the hillside and far away, the hasp broke, and long rusted hinges screamed in protest. The sounds were clearer than ringing crystal over the din of the storm. Jim began to tremble. "Hold me," he breathed, not meaning to speak the words out loud.

"I am," Blair said, voice hoarse with the intensity of his compassion. "Jim, I am."

_I know,_ Jim thought, and relaxed at long last utterly into Blair's fierce embrace. The garden door smashed open wide, and the only part of himself that Jim had been able to hoard from his torturer blew out into the storm.

And how unworthy it was. How petty his secret seemed while he lay close to Blair in the grass. There was a smell in the moisture-laden air like a musty basement or a long shut-up attic being opened at last. Though his back was to the garden door, Jim saw it emerge anyway, the hard, dark knot that comprised his innermost fear and despair. It was every failure he could claim as his own, with each one's attendant grief and shame. Hoarded to himself, the core of his fear and determination, held close even though its presence was nothing but pain.

What a tangled foundation upon which to build the man, but it had been Jim's. Never stop fighting, never give in, because you never knew when the one failure that would be just one too many would slip through and destroy everything. As it finally had tonight.

The heavens opened with a roar melding into the constant thunder. Jim felt the downward rush long before the water struck them, and knew how badly it would hurt. He tried to tuck himself closer to Blair, wanting to shield Blair from the coming downpour if he could do nothing else. With his hands still bound he couldn't wrap his arms around Blair, so he pushed Blair onto his back, in the same motion crawling over him until he was curled forward over him, his forearms on either side of Blair's head.

"Jim," Blair whispered, "Hold on."

Then the rain fell like a hail of bullets. The deluge tore through Jim, worse than he'd ever imagined it could be. He collapsed over Blair, screaming under the onslaught. His secret dark heart had been his last pitiful defense against the pain, his last, lonely claim to a self, unworthy as it was. And now everything had been lost. He should have released Blair long before. He should have released them both. He should have found a way to die.

Jim opened his eyes, but he didn't understand what he was seeing. White tile, mildewed grout, tiny gold stars sparkling. The pain broke everything, wrenched his very soul from its moorings. The scene changed back as he drifted, and he saw again the damp grass, broken and wet, and Blair's bare shoulder, dirty and grass-stained. Though the pain lasted only for an instant, it was unendurable, and so it seemed to Jim as though it never ended. Then he heard a sound behind them, a wet, muffled implosion, something dank and unwholesome collapsing in on itself as the rain washed it away.

The darkest center of his heart. The hopeless secret behind the garden wall.

It was over. There was nothing hidden anymore.

The shackles were gone. He realized it only as he was wrapping his arms around Blair's shoulders. Blair embraced him in turn, his arms around Jim's neck, holding on hard, and there were no barriers anymore. Blair had seen everything, even the darkness behind the garden wall, and he loved Jim anyway. His love had set Jim free.

Jim clung to him, gasping. The pain hadn't ended, but it was muted and so unimportant at last. All that mattered was the shuddering intensity of Blair's love for him. The grassy lawn was gone, and the rain smelled of salt and the sea. The two of them stood on a pristine white beach in the heat of mid afternoon. The ocean was bluer than the sky and the sand under their feet was brighter than the sun. Jim cradled Blair close against his chest and, looking down, he could see the marks of strength looping around his own forearms where they crossed Blair's back, and the thicker, crosshatched lines that spread down Blair's back all the way to his ankles. Blair nestled his head closer with a sigh, his arms tightening around Jim's back in turn. The white sand wasn't too bright, and the sand underfoot didn't hurt him, but what he noticed most was that Blair's hair was dry, and felt so soft against his chest. He raised one hand, wonderingly, and ran his fingers through the curling locks. A future had been given back to him, and he realized he wanted it.

The white light on the beach changed. Still bright, but shot through with gold, and the pain was a little more difficult to ignore. Jim closed his eyes, accepting the knowledge it would get worse and knowing he could bear it if he had to, because Blair was here in his arms, and would never leave him. When he opened his eyes, the lines of strength on his own arms had once again become the traces of torture and shame. Raw flesh, darkening bruises snaking up the inside of his arm, crossing the bones in the back of his hand. It was raining again, water trickling down Blair's back and over his own arms. The rain stirred the sand and washed it away slowly. The grains felt like steel wool on his abraded flesh as they tumbled end over end. The salt burned, and Blair's warm head, pressed hard to Jim's chest, was crusted with sand, scraping the burns there when he moved.

No, not rain. They weren't outside anymore. Blair had gotten them to safety, to shelter. Blair was taking care of him, as he always had. "It's all right," Jim whispered hoarsely, to hear himself say it out loud. The shifting madness had stilled at long last. Though the pain had struck so deeply at everything he once held as true, Blair had brought him home again. Easy tears of gratitude and relief came to Jim's eyes, and he wrapped his arms around Blair more firmly, holding him tighter under the trickling stream of water.

Blair felt the change too. "Aw, Jim," he said, and he patted Jim's back very gently. He sounded as though he were on the verge of tears as well. "I knew you could do it. You can do anything." He snuffled a little laugh, then let his arms slide as far around Jim's back as he could reach and squeezed a little too hard.

Jim didn't complain. "It's all right," he whispered to Blair, hugging him back and not minding the grating of sand or the painful twinge in his right wrist and across his sore shoulders. "Going to take all day to get the sand off at this rate," he pointed out gently.

Blair's head nodded against his chest. "I know." He took a deep breath, and Jim felt the swell of his chest against his own, then the pressure fading away as the air was carefully released. "Are we in a hurry?" Blair asked quietly, his embrace kind and patient as if he could stand there all day, wet and half-shivering under the slow trickle of water.

Jim's gaze tracked from the glaring gold specks in the white tile back to the dark colors of his bruised arms crossed over Blair's back, and he wondered at how the fear was all gone. The last of it had not even left a trace behind. He knew more water would hurt more, but the prospect didn't frighten him. It was barely important at all. Jim tried a small smile, pushing it past the pain so it would warm his voice. "Depends," he husked, surprised himself at how rough the sound still was. "How much hot water does this place have?"

In the circle of his arms, Blair's ribcage heaved with the breath of an answering laugh. "Not that much, man." One hand slid carefully down Jim's back and along his side, releasing him with reluctance. "I'm going to turn the water up just a little bit now, if you're gonna be OK with that."

"No." Jim shook his head and held on tighter for a moment. Blair stopped moving instantly, only pressing against him a little more strongly as if to remind Jim of his presence. "Let me."

The tiny sag of relief was Blair's agreement, and the way his hand retraced its path up Jim's back until he was holding him solidly once again. "Whatever you want, Jim, you know that now," he whispered, and turned his head to rest the point of his chin over the long curve of Jim's neck. As he spoke, the underside of his jaw pressured the strong muscle there. "Just let me know how to help you, that's all I ask."

That was all Blair had ever asked of him, Jim knew with sudden insight. From the very beginning. "Didn't tell you before." He heard himself, and his words sounded like a moan. He broke off, wanting to say it better, more clearly. Blair deserved to hear it that way from him.

"Just let me know," Blair murmured, his voice low and almost sleepy, his hands barely moving on Jim's back.

With Blair in his arms, nothing else mattered. Not the past, not even the future. He looked up at the water trickling down and knew he would survive more than that, no matter what it felt like. The ability had been given to him as a gift by the man he held so close, so dear to him. "I love you," he said, and his voice was strong and steady and calm, so he said it again. "Blair, I love you too."

For a moment Blair shook against him, breathing suddenly ragged, then his arms tightened and he said, just as calmly and steadily, "I know, Jim, I know." His head turned and he laid his cheek along Jim's collarbone, his forehead tucked against Jim's neck. "It was so clear," he whispered.

Jim's throat closed and he bowed his head over Blair's, swallowing hard. His lips moved, but he had no breath, and his final "I love you" was silent. With his right hand, he reached up and pulled the towel off the showerhead, and let it drop over the edge of the tub where the curtain met the wall. Even before the soggy weight plopped heavily onto the enameled steel, the pitiful force of the unobstructed water flow struck them. Blair flinched in surprise, though it could not have hurt. Sand moved from the trailing ends of his hair, coursing down his back in the stronger stream, cascading over Jim's forearms like an avalanche of ground glass.

It couldn't really be cutting and burning him, Jim knew that, and he forced his shaking arms to let go a little their desperate hold on Blair. Sandburg took an immediate deep breath, as if the air had been crushed from his lungs, but he didn't complain, and his own hold on Jim stayed locked tight, the length of his body pressed to Jim's and keeping him upright. "See?" Jim said, and had to say it again to make the sound come from his throat. "Easy."

 

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	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His weakness had brought Jim to this, and Jim's weakness had let him do it_

Blair smiled against Jim's neck, and shifted, somehow managing to draw him closer still. "Totally cake," he agreed, as if he were unaware of the odd tightness in his own voice.

An upper edge of the spray crested over Blair's shoulder, and the droplets struck Jim's skin directly. Each one felt like a bullet when it hit, so hot and heavy they should have blasted through him, and as they ran down his skin he could not tell them from blood. His nose filled with the salty, metallic thickness of the remembered scent and he gasped for breath around it. Then it was gone just as quickly, lost under the rising scent of clean, chlorinated water. The pain remained, attached to him like a splash of molten lead.

Blair remained. Jim relaxed a little more, and let the pain flow across himself, opening and accepting it, feeling it without becoming lost in it. The shape of it could be defined and observed, and allowed to exist without having power over him. He was anchored safe from his own internal storms by the weight of Blair's unstinting trust and affection. Holding to that with all his heart, Jim loosened his embrace even further and turned his palms upward, catching the water as it fell, accustoming himself to the unending repetition of impact until it was no more than a single impression of a simple pressure instead of the buffeting of blows. What emerged then, coming to the fore of his awareness sharper and clearer than the force of the water striking him, were the rivulets of it running slow and hot over each band of abrasions the ropes had left him. Those, and the merciless streams that had found their way across the abused skin of his chest, where every mark they touched as they wound downward flared with renewed agony. And all he had to do was step forward and let that punishing torrent cover him freely.

He told himself it was no worse than the rain had been. Falling from the sky or from a faucet, it was only water, and he had always loved being in the water. The clean sensation of it bathing his skin, the freedom to twist and sink and move through it, fly along above it, the way it caressed and supported him, even the mystery of its fluid solidity. It had never been his enemy. It had called to him when he was lost in the darkest part of the night, and he had answered then, going blindly to the sea to shed the pain with his life. It called again, this time offering life instead of surcease, and he answered again. Clear and tepid, the water pooled in his palms and ran between his fingers, sliding back over his injured wrists as it dribbled away, bereft of malice.

In his arms, Blair shifted, easing back a little, tipping his head into the main stream of water. His body moved against Jim's, balance shifting, his chest sliding along the plane of contact between them. The soft hair darkening Blair's breast held sand grains that felt like burrs trapped in silk where they touched the sensitive spots on Jim's skin. Throat upturned, eyes closed, Blair twisted his neck, trying to get the falling water to soak into his matted hair. The pressure was too low, and it merely pattered onto his head and ran off without sinking into the tangles. Trailing ends, heavy with the flow of water, dangled far enough to tickle at Jim's arms. Rising from Blair's tangled hair, the smells of seawater and fishy beach sand flared into the foreground, and faded again, gliding under the astringent chlorine scent of the shower.

It hurt. Scents, movement, contact, most everything still hurt to some degree, and Jim wondered fleetingly if it always would from this night onward. _You'd better get used to it, then,_ he told himself ruthlessly, and before the fear could creep back out to take hold of him again, he reached for the cold water knob and gave it a half turn.

Blair gasped and shivered, even as Jim moved his hand to the other knob and turned it far more cautiously, inching the heat up until he could not bear any more warmth on his broken skin. When he pulled his hand back to press flat against Blair's shoulderblade, the overall water temperature was slightly warmer than it had been, and the spray was strong enough to start soaking deeper into Sandburg's hair. It was nearly strong enough to drive Jim back to the meadow where the storm had caught him, and he clung to Blair with all the courage he had left, grimly determined to remain conscious no matter how much it hurt.

 

* * *

Keeping his head tipped back, Blair tried to catch all the spray in his hair, knowing by the way Jim trembled against him that the force of the water was excruciating. Hands light on Jim's back, he brought his shoulders up too, trying to block the rest of the overspray, wishing he were broad enough to shelter all of Jim's chest from the punishment. A weak, rattling chuckle sounded in his ear, and Jim's arms tightened around him for a moment. "It's all right, Chief, let it hit me. I can take it."

"I don't want you to." Talking with his head back made his throat tense oddly, the muscles taut in an unfamiliar pattern. The warm water was finally reaching his scalp and it felt so good he wondered if he could let go of Jim long enough to reach for the shampoo, and immediately shut down that line of thought.

"What?" Jim asked anyway, his head turning blindly on Blair's shoulder.

"Nothing," Blair mumbled. But it wasn't nothing. The travel-size bottle of shampoo stood on the soap dish by his hip, and it was the most ridiculous thing in the world that it could make him feel so much worse with its innocent presence.

He'd arrived at the motel early the previous night, before the sun had completely finished setting behind the surf, orange and red highlights capping the waves. After checking in and dropping his stuff in the small room, he had walked out to the steeply shelving beach behind the motel, hoping a walk would clear the dullness of the drive from his head and the oddly sick feeling from his stomach, the queasy sense of mixed certainty and doubt that had pushed him on the journey. The entire sunset, colors blazing on the underside of the lowering cloud deck, had gone unappreciated as he meandered along the firm packed sand between the dunes and the waterline, trying to reason out what he was doing so far from home without any logical excuse. There hadn't been an answer, only the same irrefutable knowledge he _had_ to be there that had forced him to rent the car and leave Cascade in the first place. It was making him nuts trying to figure out why he felt the overwhelming urge, and why it refused to be pigeonholed in with his usually controllable anxiety over Jim being on a dangerous undercover assignment. When it had finally turned so dark that he stumbled over a piece of unseen driftwood, he'd given up the search for peace in the salt flavored air outside and returned to the room.

When had Jim been found out? Was he being beaten and tied up even while Blair wandered the beach a few miles away?

There hadn't been anything on TV, hardly surprising in a town with only four channels, and the motel didn't have cable. Even so, he had flipped through the offerings five times before admitting defeat and turning the set off. There were several bars he'd seen along the main strip as he had cruised from one end of town to the other, but he was quite certain the local idea of diversionary entertainment would bore him silly despite the opportunity to observe a small and reclusive population in its natural habitat. Because he never traveled without one, he did have a book to read, but the one he'd carried along proved to be far duller than he had expected. Or maybe it couldn't ever have been interesting enough to distract him from his thoughts, no matter what its topic. Standing in the middle of the narrow open space between the bed and the TV, he'd surveyed his surroundings with increasing confusion. Sometimes his own brain had to be trying to drive him crazy, he thought. After having this inescapable urge to come chasing down after Jim, and having given in to it, it still wouldn't leave him alone. There was no way he was stupid enough to go out and walk into the middle of the operation. Even if he survived the attempt to introduce himself, Jim would flay him afterward.

It was just an expression, it didn't really mean anything, but even so, thinking it now as Jim shivered against him, naked with trust, was an obscenity. Worse than any exaggerated description of the physical mayhem Jim would never have committed would have been the look in his eyes, and the cold sense of having betrayed something irreplaceable Blair would have felt himself. Nothing could have been worse than that.

Nothing but knowing his indecisive delay had cost Jim his sanity. While Blair had pulled out his shaving stuff and retreated to the bathroom, running the water until the entire room filled with steam because he wanted it to be relaxing enough to allow him to go right to sleep, Jim had needed him more than ever before. But Blair had been concentrating on lathering his hair, determined to ignore that little voice until it went away. Pushing the sense of urgency down under his enjoyment of the mild scent of his favorite glycerine soap, carried along because he'd just _known_ any place he could afford to stay would supply a rock-hard little piece of Cashmere Bouquet. He'd felt so smug when he'd seen that tiny white bar in its generic wrapper sitting next to the plastic cup by the sink.

How much of that time had Jim spent screaming in agony, losing his control and his spirit to his captors, crying Blair's name, begging for help that never came? Pleading for death when he couldn't bear the pain any longer, while Blair had been obliviously basking in the infinite supply of hot water. There was no forgetting or forgiving the wasted hours before he had finally given in to that urge and gone to the beach, as if his mind had somehow heard those cries from a great distance, not knowing what they meant but certain he had to answer them. Remembering that, thinking of how he had messed around trying to kill time, trying to force himself to rest while that strange compulsion grew stronger and stronger and he struggled against it harder and harder - Blair's breath caught in a sob. His upturned throat trapped the sound, choking him on the air he drew, and he had to tip his head down and forward to keep from fighting his own body to breathe. "I'm sorry, Jim, I'm so sorry," he moaned, and coughed as another sob caught him inhaling.

Jim's embrace tightened as if the dregs of his diminished strength could be enough to protect them both, and he asked urgently, "Why? Blair, what's wrong?" The shift in position let the harsh spray batter directly on his arms, and they trembled even while he pulled Blair closer.

That small weakness, so out of place in association with Jim, seemed to Blair to be the final sum of everything he had done wrong. His weakness had brought Jim to this, and Jim's weakness had let him do it.

 

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	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Soul stripped bare as his flesh_

_Jim's_ weakness? Blair's breath caught again, this time in a half-gasped laugh that fought with a sob and won a partial victory. Better than anyone, he knew there was nothing weak about Jim. What others might mistake for weakness was only his open-eyed honesty and belief in fundamental goodness; a heartbreaking vulnerability, perhaps, but no flaw. The quality of innocence they imparted had made him stronger and more courageous than anyone else Blair had ever known. Whatever he might believe of himself sometimes, Jim possessed a well of strength that had never run dry, no matter the challenge.

Nor could Blair deny knowing some of that strength came from himself, drawn straight from the love they shared. Blair opened his eyes, denying the tears, looking deliberately at what he could see of Jim's chest from where he rested against it. The pattern of blistering marks stretched away from his cheek, swirling in a grotesque parody of art, clustered over the sensitive aureole, speaking mutely of those hours of agony. Speaking of the love Jim had been willing to suffer so much to finally see manifest, the love that had sustained him through the night and even now gave him the ability to stand and accept more pain when Blair asked it of him. It was a trust Blair couldn't betray because the twin half of it lived within himself, and always had, as Jim had known from the beginning. It was his strength, as it was Jim's.

His hold gentled on Jim's back, and he said again, "I'm sorry." His voice was calm, the wild grief and guilt banished by the same power that had let Jim throw away his fear and shame. "I just forgot something for a minute." The truth of it made him smile, and Jim's hold on him relaxed as Blair closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing back the last of his tears. "It's OK now, Jim. I won't forget it again, I promise."

"Good," Jim rasped, the bewilderment clear, but he stayed where he was, and slowly the trembling in his arms faded to a shiver, and then to stillness. The tenseness in the rest of his body began to fade too, the subliminal strum of muscles held taut noticeable only as it faded away under Blair's hands like the vibration of distant thunder.

In feeling the change where his body was pressed so closely to Jim's, Blair felt the sand again, and its itchy, gritty presence was intolerable. Shifting, he stroked his right hand in circles over Jim's shoulder blades, slow and smooth, keeping his touch light, aware of the sharp edges of the sand still stuck to Jim's skin. "We need to get this stuff off you, OK? I'm gonna reach for the soap here, nice and slow...." Drawing his hand across Jim's back as he spoke, he let his touch trail off Jim's side and the reflexive shiver under his other hand was brief, deliberately damped.

Letting go a little to give him the freedom to reach it, Jim chuckled weakly. "Just don't drop it."

Blair snorted in surprised laugher, nearly losing his grip on the square bar of soap. He turned his hand and caught it, still grinning. Jim's fear was real enough -- Blair could tell by the way Jim's palms stayed pressed so firmly against his back, holding him like a talisman too precious to give up -- but the humor was too, and it was another welcome sign of Jim's recovery. Holding the soap firmly, he straightened back up and hugged Jim tightly. "If I do, you're calling room service for a replacement, cause I'm not letting go to fish around for it."

His hands weren't wet enough to work up any lather on the soap, and Jim's back was still dry. Knowing what he was asking, Blair added very quietly, "I'm going to step backward so you can get wetted down a little here, OK?" He waited until Jim nodded against his shoulder, feeling the tension come and go as Jim fought not to tighten his embrace, and then Blair moved a half step closer to the showerhead. The cold metal of the faucets poked at his lower back and he could feel the rounded edge of the drain plug under one of his heels.

Jim slid forward with him, face turned away from the spray, cheek pressed to Blair's, sheltering in his shadow. The flare of water crested over Blair's shoulder on the other side, striking down almost directly between them. As if Blair weren't aware of the way he had begun to shake, Jim asked hoarsely, "This place has room service?"

Holding his right hand up, turning the soap under the stream of falling water to wet it, Blair replied seriously, "Yeah, but I never know how much to tip a cockroach." He shifted the soap to his left hand, held loosely against the center of Jim's back, and very carefully smoothed the slick froth cupped in his right palm up the back of Jim's neck and into his hair. The short, dense fuzz covered a soft bump, and Jim winced, curling tighter into Blair's arms as his touch ran across it.

"Sorry," Blair murmured, even as his fingers delicately explored the injured area. "They hit you here?" Jim nodded silently, a slow inclination of his head, barely able to raise it from resting on Blair's shoulder. Moving onward carefully, Blair kept working the lather into Jim's hair around and away from that spot, keeping his touch gentle but constant as he spread the mildly sweet-smelling soap suds. He couldn't feel much of the grittiness of trapped sand in Jim's hair, but he knew how much of it weighted his own, and how the stiff, salty coating of it on his scalp itched.

"Tilt your head back, so this doesn't run in your eyes," he directed, and as Jim complied, neck barely trembling with the strain, he brushed his hand above Jim's forehead, bringing the soap as far forward as he dared. "That's good," he said, his voice as calming and careful as his caress. "Now shift over to the other side and let's get this stuff off your head first, so it won't get in your face."

Like an animal that had been hurt so badly it no longer fought against being touched, Jim did as he was told. Treating Jim as tenderly as if he were that helpless animal come silently begging for aid, Blair shifted his body, supporting Jim's weight as he moved into the full stream, face upturned to meet it. "Shhh," he breathed, only for the comfort of speaking gently, and used his hand to riffle the lather back out of Jim's hair. The short bristle of it tickled Blair's palm, softly resisting the brushing against its grain. Trails of water dripped down the composed planes of Jim's face, over and past his closed eyes, carrying the last of the sand away. Carrying away the salt, the scent of the sea, the blood and the tears.

It took very little time for the water to run clear, the soap he had so carefully spread rinsed away with even more care. "That's good, you're doing so good here, shhhh, you can move out of the water again, Jim." Blair gave a slight push with the front of his shoulder, and Jim numbly moved his head out of the spray, and back to the other side, resting his chin on Blair's shoulder like an offering. For a few moments, Blair did no more than just hold him, and let Jim hold him in return, breathing in time with each other, their skin warm and slick with the cleansing water making its way between them.

Slowly Blair began to move again, this time easing the bar of soap over Jim's upper back in gentle circles. He switched hands, and did the other shoulder blade in the same careful way, running the slippery bar over Jim's skin with one hand. With the other he kept a gentle pressure on Jim's back, holding him close, fingers moving in a light massage that echoed the strokes of the bar. He could feel the uneven ridges of those long scratches he had seen earlier, but though they had swelled enough to be discernible, they didn't seem to be serious. The marks looked more like artifacts of his escape than anything deliberately inflicted.

"They didn't hurt your back?" he asked quietly, working the soap up over one side and along the sweep from the strong neck to the rounded shoulder point.

Solid, resilient, the muscular curve bowed forward as Blair ran his hand over it, and Jim ground out a breathless, "No."

"Shhh, I've got you now." Blair leaned against him briefly, speaking his reassurance with his whole body while his hands continued their gentle task, moving over the broad back with all the kindness he had in him. This time he felt the sand between them even more clearly, an increasingly gritty annoyance on skin sensitized by warmth and coursing water. Leaning back as far as he could within the circle of Jim's embrace, he looked up into that beloved face.

Jim's eyes were still closed, but peacefully, not tightly. There was a crease of pain between his brows that deepened the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and the set of his lips was firm with concentration. The containment of his agony gave his features a thinned, drawn look that was a refined version of their usual inner strength. It was hard for Blair not to lose himself in thinking of that pain, in admiration for Jim's courage, and in the overwhelming desire to make the hurting stop.

He couldn't afford anything but the admiration, not for a while, and in order to honor the courage he had to cause Jim more pain before he could try to begin helping him to heal. "I'm sorry," he said very quietly. "Can you let go for a little while, so I can get to your arms?"

With a soft breath that was not quite a sigh, Jim released him. His touch trailed away as he dropped his hands and let go, and Jim's eyes stayed shut as he launched himself into free fall with nothing of his own but a total belief in Blair's ability and willingness to catch him. Blair's heart beat painfully and his throat tightened until he knew speech would be impossible for a minute or two. Instead of trying to say anything, he brought his hands forward, riding the smooth curve of Jim's back, around his shoulders, until he could pass the bar of soap lightly across Jim's chest, following the line of his collarbone where there were the fewest blistered marks.

As he scrubbed the bar between his hands to generate more lather, their sides resting on Jim's skin maintaining contact, and then wrapped them around Jim's upper arm with unrelenting tenderness, he couldn't help glancing away from what he was doing to look at Jim's face. Even the mild soap he was using had to burn on the abrasions over Jim's elbow, where the foam was already sliding on its own, slipping ahead of his hold on the solid bulk of that substantial biceps. But there was no reflection of it in the set of Jim's face. The barriers were all gone, his soul stripped as bare as his flesh, his welfare laid in Blair's hands with as much simple trust as his body had been given over for care. Jim had gone beyond fighting, because Blair asked it of him.

 

* * *

 

 


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The same strength that would take them both home_

Bowing his head, Blair concentrated on the task, giving as much of himself to it as Jim offered. He let his heart guide his touch, fingers barely skimming over the bruised spots, pressing with surety and skill where the muscles were unmarked and tense. The soap foam spread out, briefly holding the dark, soft hair on Jim's lower arm in random whorls before the spattering water reaching over Blair's shoulder grew streaks in the pattern and pulled the straggling clumps of bubbles downward to drip off his hand.

As Blair reached the narrow, injured wrist, Jim's hand twisted upward and caught at his, fingers searching for contact. With the ease of instinct Blair's hand slid into his, their fingers interlacing, holding on with gentle strength. Borne by the shifting soap foam, a last few sand grains dribbled over their clasped palms. They only tickled his skin with an inconsequential itch as they went by, yet Jim's grip on his fingers tightened briefly, then eased again.

The hot, salty burn of tears rose behind Blair's eyes, as fresh and painful as if it were the first time that night. He turned his head up and back, letting the spray fall directly on his face to catch the ones he could not stop. Later, when they had time, he could hold Jim, and let Jim hold him, and the tears could come then, if they still needed to. Blindly he ran the bar of soap up his own arm, keeping his grip on Jim's hand, rubbing at the sand that clung stubbornly to the creases of skin at his elbow and wrist. He'd never realized how tenacious the grit could be, nor how good it would really feel to finally get rid of it.

Jim held on quietly, not reacting again when more sand trickled down Blair's arm and onto their clasped hands, eyes closed, breathing in shallow but regular breaths. Eyes stinging from the water, Blair could still see how calm Jim's face was, how evenly his chest rose and fell. It would have felt so good to rest his cheek against that broad chest for just a moment, just to let him know how his courage affected Blair, but he hated to lay the stinging weight of his sand-encrusted hair across those raw marks. He feared even the cracked skin of his chapped lips would be too rough, so he only whispered, "It's OK, Jim, I'm here." Drawing air past the lump in his throat, he forced himself to keep moving, to push the soap across his own chest where it laid the hair over flat in its wake.

While he worked over his chest he kept talking, a soft steady counterpoint to the hiss of the shower. "You know that seminar I was telling you about? The one Professor Goss changed to Wednesday mornings? Anyway, I don't need that credit so bad this year, really. I can drop it and just audit." Turning slightly, he managed to face into the spray enough to get most of the soap rinsed off his own chest, though it collected back into streaks as it ran over his thighs, and made the sand there itch more. Bending as far as he could without pulling at Jim's hand, he swabbed at his own legs, and kept talking. His exertions made his words slightly uneven, but Jim didn't seem to notice.

"I'll borrow the syllabus and do the reading on my own, and I bet he'd even take the time to look at an outline for a paper if I asked him to. And it'll be back at the usual time next year, since he gives it every fall. I can take it then and be totally ahead of the curve. So we can still do the grocery shopping during the week, and maybe get some camping in over the weekends this time, like you wanted to last year." When he looked up again, Jim's head had that characteristic tilt as he listened, and the pinched look around his eyes had faded away, some of the lines losing their tightness. Somehow that made it even harder to ask in the same calm, inconsequential tone of voice, "Jim, can you let me do the rest now?"

For a moment he wasn't sure if Jim had been listening to his words or just the tone of his voice, but then the grip on Blair's hand tightened for a moment, and slid away, accepting what was necessary with quiet grace. "I was thinking..." Soft as it was, Blair's voice broke, and he bowed his head, concentrating on getting both hands filled with lather again. As he started at the top of Jim's other shoulder, working gently down the arm, he cleared his throat. "I was thinking, we could go back to that spot way up on the Suiattle you liked so much. Remember? The fishing was good and there aren't any big campgrounds close, so it would be really quiet."

A soft sip of air sounded as his touch circled Jim's wrist, and Blair closed his eyes for a moment, holding very still until the wash of emotion had gone through him and he could go on. "We can hike in until you can't hear or smell anyone else around," he whispered to the darkness behind his lids. "Not come back out for days." _Maybe never. If this is what being in the world gets you, who the hell needs it?_ Opening his eyes, he watched with a sensation of great distance as his hands enfolded and moved over Jim's, sliding carefully down over the long fingers that trembled but held still for him. Wrapping his own around them, he held on briefly, faintly surprised he could actually hear the change in Jim's breathing for those few moments.

Feeling like a traitor, he used that grip to urge Jim gently forward, into the spray. The soap film had to be taken off before the itch and tickle of it became as uncomfortable as the sand, but that made what he had to do no easier on his heart. Even the fact Jim did as he was directed without so much as an involuntary flinch or moan wasn't enough to keep Blair from knowing how much it would hurt. Jim's silent courage was as affecting as his complete breakdown had been, and Blair wondered if he would feel the same hollow ache every time he looked at his friend's face from now on. Those features were still calm as the water struck his arm, only a slight tightness around his nostrils betraying his agony. The view blurred for a moment and Blair blinked hard, feeling the warm drops trickle downward, quickly lost in the rest of the dampness on his face.

It had to be done. Holding Jim's arm up, supporting it with both hands so he put no pressure on the sprained wrist, he made sure the trickling water cleared all the foam from the skin, especially the rope burned areas that would be so sensitive to any contact. _Neosporin,_ he thought faintly. _I have to get some Neosporin. I promised him some._

When that was done, he drew Jim farther forward, all the way against his own chest, so the spray arched over them both, and water ran down Jim's back. He had to let go of Jim's hand to reach around and skim his own over the planes of Jim's shoulder blades, chasing the last bubbles away from the roughened edges of the scratches there. It was so easy, once he had finished that small job, to leave his arms around Jim, to turn the embrace of necessity into one of support and love instead. So easy to press himself into Jim's solidity, and escape the terrible anguish by closing his eyes to the evidence of it. So very difficult to quit clinging to the comfort of the warm body that leaned against him in utter trust and sheltered him with its own last strength.

 

* * *

The warmth of Blair's chest against his was gone too soon, and Jim drifted again, tied to the present only by the strand of Blair's will he had made his own. It seemed he had been standing there for so very long, and he was tired. Beyond that was pain, washing around and past his consciousness like the surf, tugging at his anchor. But he trusted the bedrock grip that held him steady no matter what pushed at him, and rode the waves with his mind at peace.

Blair's voice returned with his hands, the touch skating carefully across Jim's collarbones as he asked, "So, whatta ya say? Let's tell Simon to take your caseload and stick it in a file where the sun doesn't shine, and go get lost in the woods, OK? No bad guys, no Feds, no showers, just fresh air and quiet." Soap lather trickled from Blair's hands, inching down Jim's chest with slippery inevitability. The bubbles moved and popped, and he could feel the explosive dissolution of each one. But Blair's touch was gentle as a blessing on his skin, even as it moved over the blistered patches where thought had been taken from him.

Fresh air and quiet, and the peace of being alone in a safe place, with Blair's company to keep him from feeling abandoned. The image was so good Jim found himself nodding once, his ruined voice rasping a slow, "Yes" that surprised himself with its hoarse intensity.

The whisper soft touch paused, Blair's hands no more than two palm-shaped heat signatures high on Jim's ribs. Then the warm spots moved, continuing their ministrations, driving the fire from his wounds with a greater warmth. "It's a deal. When we get back home, we head for the hills. So far away from all this, man, they won't find us until we want to be found."

Jim nodded and felt the ache of muscles knotting at the back of his neck and spreading across his shoulders. Tension pulled at the bruise at the base of his skull, still hurting with a dull, hollow pain from the soft brush of Blair's fingertips minutes ago, aching as though Blair's hands were still there, pressing hard. He opened his eyes to see Blair's concerned eyes gazing up at him, blinking water out of his eyes. More tears, Jim knew, and wasn't sure how he was so certain. Perhaps he could smell the salt, even over the reek of sea water, or perhaps tears really were different from bath water, a difference in surface tension, heat, salinity, something, to distinguish the slow droplets rolling down Blair's wet cheek.

He brought his hand up slowly, feeling the pain in those muscles too, a tug across his shoulder and a deeper, more difficult ache reaching up the inside of his arm, reminding him of standing for hours with his arms outspread, lashed to splintering boards he hadn't been able to break until it was far too late. He brushed the back of his fingers across Blair's cheek, managing to be gentle despite the trembling weakness in his arm, and felt the faintest sting of salt tears.

A tremulous smile touched Blair's lips. He tilted his head, pressing against Jim's touch for as long as Jim had the strength to hold his hand there, and when his arm finally dropped, Blair's face crumpled with sorrow he couldn't hide, though Jim could see how Blair tried. But then Blair took a gasping breath of air, and didn't look away, and the grief on his face became his grim determination, that limitless, immeasurable strength that had brought them both so far tonight. The same strength that would take them both home, Jim knew. He hoped Blair knew it as well.

 

* * *

 

 


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _For the courage that made him strong, for the strength that made him beautiful_

Blair did know, whether he could admit it to himself or not. While his expression was still set, a smile that was a little frightening in its intensity spread across his features. His face was so naked with his wet hair washed back from his brow. "You're gonna make me call Simon, aren't you, Jim? Thanks a lot."

He smiled for Blair, for the courage that made him strong, for the strength that made him beautiful. The pain of forcing his bruised mouth into a smile was forgotten when Blair beamed back at him in response, open mouthed, looking as though he could laugh out loud. "I knew it," he told Jim. "All right, I'll do it, but you owe me, you hear?"

"I hear you, Sandburg," Jim rasped. "I won't forget."

Blair lowered his head fast, as if that had touched too close. It probably had, but Jim couldn't take the words back. Wouldn't even if he could. "Nobody's gonna be calling anybody until we get this sand washed off," Blair mumbled in a gruff voice. He eased his arm around Jim's back, pulling him close. One hand still rested against Jim's side, below his breast, fist clenched around the soap. Jim felt the curve of Blair's fingers and the slick, flat side of the block of soap. That glycerin soap Blair liked. He could tell from the yielding, soft feel of it, as much as from the subdued perfume. Jim associated its faint botanical scent so intimately with Blair he could hardly recognize it as perfume at all.

He remembered a camping trip -- had it really been a year ago? -- when Blair had left his bar of soap sitting on a rock by the stream after washing up one morning, and the heat of the sun had melted it into a little puddle of goo by the end of the day. Blair had complained about having to use Jim's bottle of Camping Suds the rest of the trip. "Geez, man, it's the same thing we're using to wash the dishes! I don't want to use this on my skin."

Jim wanted to ask Blair if he'd packed the Camping Suds this trip, because he was sure that would make Blair laugh, and his laughter was such strength to both of them. He couldn't find enough strength of his own to say the words though. He could only relax into Blair's arms, accepting the heated pain of Blair's body against the burns on his chest and belly, letting the renewal of all the tiny flames start to burn away the memories embedded in each affected nerve.

"You're doing great," Blair was saying softly. "Not much longer now." He massaged Jim's back carefully with the flat of his hand, slippery smooth from the soap, his gentle touch dislodging stubborn grains of sand and sweeping them away along with the salty film. Blair pressed closer after a moment, reaching all the way around Jim so he could turn the bar of soap in both hands. With the fresh lather bubbling softly in his palm he began again, smoothing it slowly across Jim's lower back. Jim felt the suds froth down over his hips and buttocks, carrying sand with them in a tiny bouncing cascade, before tangling in the hairs at the back of his thighs.

Blair moved closer still, shifting a little, pulling Jim near. Jim's arms still hung loose at his sides, so Blair tucked himself under his arms, encircling his ribs, asking for no extra effort from Jim. He reached all the way around Jim's waist once to turn the soap between his hands, and Jim felt the muscles in the strong forearm across his back shifting with the slight task. When Blair's hand returned to its task, he washed sand and salt downward from Jim's waist, his chest and side pressed so close to Jim the pattering stream from the shower no longer ran between them. Blair worked slowly and steadily, trying to shield Jim even from the gentle brush of his flesh with a protective froth of suds. He smoothed his hand over Jim's buttocks with the same care, without hesitation, finding the streaked lines of sand at the top of Jim's thighs, under the squared curve of muscle. He stopped again to gather another palm full of lather, and then used it to wash the grit away.

"OK, Jim," he said, his voice calm and quiet. "You think you can -- uh, shift a little here?"

Jim understood. He moved his leg forward, parting his thighs. Blair's hand was warm and sure, his palm slick with the mild soap. Blair had wrapped his left arm around Jim's waist, supporting him more securely. He was still holding the soap in his fist, his knuckles pressed against Jim's back as he finished chasing the sand away with his other hand. "Just gonna get the soap off now," he said, his voice guiding as gently as his touch. Through the haze of pain and comfort wrapped around him like a scratchy blanket, Jim felt water droplets splattering against his back and realized Blair was holding his own hand up, washing away the suds under the stream of the shower. "Going to get under the water for a sec," he warned Jim. His voice was calm, just a little hoarse, as he pulled Jim forward.

The stream of water broke across Jim's back like a lash. He bowed his head with a sigh, and Blair supported him fiercely, left forearm locked across Jim's back. He caught what water he could in the palm of his right hand, and made sure all the suds were washed away, the last of the sand borne off with them. Jim concentrated on the gentle sureness of that intimate touch, and the pain was less important than Blair's deep breath, swelling his chest against Jim's, and the longer exhalation. "You'll -- you need to let me know, Jim," he said steadily. "Does it feel like I've gotten all the soap?"

Jim nodded and whispered, "Yes," and Blair eased him back out of the direct stream of the water, his thigh and chest bearing against Jim with gentle force, his arms around Jim's back. It was such a relief to be out of the punishing spray. A moan escaped Jim, and when Blair's arms tightened around him, he let himself fall into that welcome strength. He was more aware than ever of his vulnerability, with Blair's gentle touch such a lingering warmth, and it was all right. Blair was strong enough for both of them. Jim had only to endure.

Blair laid the side of his face on Jim's chest for a moment then, chin tucked low, his arms tightening briefly around Jim's back. His hair was still scratchy with sand and lank from the salt, despite lying so wetly on his shoulders. Poor kid needed to get that washed out, Jim thought regretfully. He kept his breaths long and slow, and brought his arms up slowly to embrace Blair for a moment. Water from the showerhead pattered across his forearms when they crossed Blair's back, but it was worth it for the way Blair straightened against Jim, his touch more sure, his voice steadier when he spoke.

"We're so close to being done here," he told Jim confidently. He lifted his head to look up at Jim, and as Jim looked back at him with streaming eyes, shaking with weakness, remaining upright and so close to the showerhead only because Blair was holding him there, Blair unwound one arm from around Jim's back, trusting Jim to remain there, and touched the backs of his fingers to Jim's unshaven cheek. "You're still with me, right?" Blair asked softly.

Jim nodded, feeling Blair's knuckles pressing gently against his cheekbone. _Not going anywhere else,_ he thought, though he didn't speak out loud. He couldn't imagine being anywhere except here with Blair ever again.

Well, maybe it would be nice to get out of the shower.

He must have managed some sort of a smile, because a radiant one broke across Blair's face then. "I knew it," Blair whispered. "Your control's coming back, isn't it? You're getting stronger all the time, I can tell. Aw Jim, just a little bit more now -- then you can rest, and it's all going to come back to you. I know it is."

Jim couldn't disappoint the hope shining in Blair's eyes, so he only nodded again, less of a movement than a clear intent, and tried not to shake as Blair eased him back another step. Blair's body was no longer pressed to Jim's, but his arms were around Jim's waist again. He could feel the movement of Blair's wrists, fingers curved as he turned the bar of soap between his palms.

Then Blair locked his left arm at the small of Jim's back and moved a little to the side, so he could ease his other hand between them. Soap frothed across Jim's stomach. Blair's fingers were warm and gentle, and he used the palm of his hand to sweep the foam down and away. Jim's flesh was still puckered in a line from the wet elastic of his boxers, and stubborn grains of sand clung to the reddened, tender rumples of skin.

Blair stepped closer for a moment so he could reach around Jim and turn the soap in his hand, coating his palm and fingers with soft lather. Jim could feel the suds spilling through Blair's cupped fingers as he brought his hand around again and worked on massaging the grit away. He flinched when Blair reached the cluster of welts above his navel, and Blair froze. He gave a long, harsh rasp of breath and then said softly, "I'm sorry, Jim."

Jim shook his head, denying the need for the apology, though he couldn't speak. Blair understood anyway, and after a moment he began again, somehow managing to make his touch even gentler than before. It didn't matter how gentle Blair was, though. It was the very warmth of Blair's flesh against his own that made his wounds burn again.

The memories came to Jim, unbidden. The man with the flat brown eyes, watching his face so eagerly as he touched Jim, hot fingertips scuttling across his belly like the legs of a monstrous spider. Jim couldn't stop the instinctual flinch, his gut rippling under Blair's touch, trying to draw away.

Blair stopped again, moving his hand away to rest carefully on Jim's hip. He swallowed twice, trying to calm himself before he spoke. Soap bubbles frothed and broke under the palm of his hand and slid down Jim's leg. "This is hurting you," he said a low, soft voice. "What can I do? Is the water too hot?"

Jim only shook his head. Slowly, trying to be as gentle as Blair was with him, he put his hand over Blair's, curling his fingers around Blair's wrist. The hairs on the back of Sandburg's hand were swept together and spiraled flat across his skin, slick from the soap. With a tug, he brought Blair's hand back and pressed it to his stomach. The heat of Blair's palm brought the burns to life again, and with that life, the memory of every touch, every shock, and each loss of control. Every betrayal. Every plea for mercy from a man who knew none.

Blair's eyes met his, wide and startled. Jim's belly shrank from the heat of that touch, but he held Blair's hand there until the expression on Blair's face grew calm again. Then, taking a deep breath, he raised his arms so he could lay both hands on Blair's shoulders. The strain made his arms shake, but it was worth it to see Blair smile up at him, so reassured.

"Let me know if it gets to be too much," Blair told him quietly. "And we'll figure out some other way."

 

* * *

 

 


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A man who could touch him that way loved him enough to make anything possible_

Jim tightened his grip on Blair's shoulders. This he could do, even if he could manage nothing else for the moment. He could hold Blair and, for Blair, he could endure.

He felt Blair's shoulders rise as Blair took a long, deep breath. "I know it hurts," Blair said. "But this is me, now. I'm right here, and one way or another, we're going to get through this, all right?" He smiled up at Jim again, his expression so brave it broke Jim's heart. Blair smoothed his palm over Jim's stomach, the side of his hand sweeping away the last dark grains of sand in a slow cascade of soap foam. Then he wrapped his arms around Jim's waist again, working up a new lather of soap, and kept washing Jim, his touch as gentle as it was sure.

"This is me," he said again, though there was a different tone in his voice. He lowered his eyes, looking at Jim's chest, at his own hand low on Jim's belly. "I know it's asking a helluvalot, Jim -- but please, let me take the rest all away from you now. Every time they touched you. Everything they said to you. Every time they hurt you. I want to wash it all away from you."

Blair laughed suddenly, a hoarse chuckle that was such a shadow of the old Blair Sandburg's ebullience, and he beamed up at Jim as he gathered another handful of lather. "So I'm doing good to get the sand off, I know, man. But you'll work with me on this, right?"

"Always." Jim felt his lips forming the word, the little bite of pain at the bruised corner eased by the satisfaction of one more success, however small.

Blair seemed to stagger under the weight of Jim's promise, but his head came up again, and his naked eyes showed every nuance of emotion swirling through his heart. The fear was only a shadow behind the blinding light of his love. He kept talking to Jim softly as he washed the sand from the matted curls around his sex. "You've survived everything the world's ever thrown at you, Jim, and come out stronger from it. I know that. I see it every day when I look in your face."

Such gentle nonsense from Sandburg. Such well-meant lies, though he supposed Blair probably believed them. Jim's hands tightened a little on Blair's shoulders, and he lowered his head, eyes closed, feeling the soapy touch of Blair's hand between his thighs. So careful, so gentle. What strength could Blair possibly find in him now, when it took such kindness to accomplish the simplest personal chores for him?

"I wanna get under the shower again," Blair said, after a moment's silence. "You ready?"

Jim nodded, but when Blair tried to urge him forward, his legs refused to carry him. He stood there, knees locked, soap dripping down his thighs, stray droplets from the spray behind Blair's head splashing on his hands where he held Blair's shoulders, still burning him like blown ash.

"Jim," Blair said, voice hoarse from a night of weeping for him. "Hey, listen to me now. You're going to come out even stronger from this too, I know it. So help me out here, OK? Just for a little while longer now."

 _I can't help you,_ Jim thought, grieving for the man Blair believed he had once been. _I'm sorry, Chief. I can't._

"Jim." Rasping the name, a tremor hovered in Blair's voice from his own exhaustion. He looked like he was freezing from standing under a lukewarm shower for so long. "Jim, look at me. Please."

Jim opened his eyes and looked down to see Blair smiling ruefully up at him. "You don't believe me, do you?" His smile grew broader, his eyes a little brighter. "C'mon, man, would I lie to you?" Blair stepped closer, wrapping his arms around Jim's back, laying his head upon Jim's breast. There was still so much sand trapped in that long, lank hair. It scratched and burned, but Blair held on anyway, to Jim's relief, even when Jim couldn't stop himself from flinching.

"OK, so don't answer that. But listen to what I'm telling you, Jim, because this is the truth too. It will come back. All of it will. But you don't have to be strong right now, because I'm here, and I can be strong for both of us. You know that's true. You know it is."

Jim eased his grip on Blair's shoulders, sliding his arms around Blair's back carefully until he could let his cheek rest against Blair's head, lukewarm from the water, reeking of salt and the sea. Blair's arms shifted across Jim's back, pulling their bodies closer together, bracing Jim with the very strength he'd promised.

Jim relaxed with a sigh, leaning into that strength, letting Blair pull him back under the devastating spray. Blair kept one arm locked around Jim's back, but he had to permit some distance between them to wash off the soap. Jim felt his own shudders and flinches, his flesh crawling under the impact of the water as though it were something entirely separate from him, a sinister cloak wrapped tight around his heart and mind. A mantle of pain he would never be able to shed again. But through it all he felt the touch of Blair's hand. There was a soft splash of water low on his belly, and then the flat of Blair's palm, warmer than the water. "Easy," Blair breathed. "I've got you."

"I know," Jim thought, realizing he'd spoken out loud only when Blair's head came up, and Blair's eyes widened with a bright tangle of emotions. Relief and love, sorrow, surprise -- but mostly that calm certainty. As though Jim were only confirming what Blair had known all along.

"I'll make it better," Blair whispered hoarsely. "I promise." The arm around Jim's waist tightened and shifted, just enough for Jim to feel it, and he realized Blair had clenched his hand in a fist over Jim's ribs, an unconscious physical echo of his determination. His other hand was soft and careful as ever, though. He was cupping it against Jim's belly, guiding a flow of water down to the crux of his thighs. He followed the water with his hand, making sure all the soap was washed away, then beginning again, careful and easy, being so gentle for Jim and managing what was necessary all the same.

His arms still draped around Blair's shoulders, albeit more loosely than before, Jim bent his head. This time, though, he wasn't bowing his head in defeat. He was relaxing further into Blair's infinitely tender care. Blair still asked so much, and he still didn't know if he could possibly achieve what Blair demanded so easily of him. The request had been made as though surrendering all self were a step as self-evident and simple as getting out of bed in the morning. But Blair's touch was such peace, even through the pain, and a man who could touch him that way loved him enough to make anything possible. A dim memory of red lines of strength scrolling away from Blair's naked heart came to him as he felt the splash of water between his legs, softened by Blair's hand. The last sting of soap faded.

"OK," Blair said calmly, quietly. "Did we get it all?"

For a moment Jim wasn't sure whether Blair meant the soap or the pain he had asked permission to wash away. Both had diminished under the touch of his hand, slipping away down Jim's body toward oblivion, intermingled at Blair's request. No, he thought a moment later, the pain was still present, still beating against his will and thoughts like the relentless surf he could hear faintly, even over the hiss and splash of the shower. But the hurt was less, as was the sense of destruction that had made going onward so pointless and difficult. Blair's strength and unstinting love had filled those gaps and begun to make him feel like he could become whole again.

So he answered, "Yes" in his gravelly rasp, and under his hands felt the complicated shift and play of Blair's muscles as he straightened and moved to block the spray from reaching Jim. It had reached the point where it made little difference to him whether the lash of the water fell constantly, or was present only in the lingering ache of all his wounds, but Blair's effort to protect him meant more to Jim than Blair's actual success in cushioning the neverending blows.

"Shhh, just rest a minute here, OK?" Shielding him, holding him close, Blair seemed to surround him entirely, keeping the whole world at bay outside his embrace. It was only an illusion, Jim knew, but it was one he wanted to keep for both of them because he knew it was the only thing giving them the strength to keep doing what had to be done. It was the only thing convincing them anything had to be done at all, when it would have been so much easier to give up long ago. _I did give up,_ he thought with detached recollection. It didn't seem as important as it had before.

Blair had wanted him to give up, to let go of everything remaining. The abrasions on his wrists burned from the soap and the impact of the spray still hitting them, aching as if still chained. Not by his own weakness any more, or by the whim of a stranger; all those fetters had been left behind at Blair's command. What held him now was something far different, something he would never let go of, never lose. His hands slid lower, down from Blair's shoulders, around his back, and Jim sighed with the contentment of knowing Blair would not ever ask him to let go of this last voluntary captivity.

"Hey, we're more than half done. Be out of here in no time," Blair offered softly, as if mistaking Jim's sigh for one of despair. For the moment he rested against Jim without moving even his hands, as if needing the stillness of that contact to recalibrate himself.

 

* * *

 

 


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I'll be more careful next time_

In the stillness, Jim also rested, and felt the difference Blair's ministrations had already made. Where his hands had passed, gentle but thorough, the sting of salt and the bite of sharp-edged sand were gone. Their absence was like the lifting of a weight he had carried for such a long time he had grown accustomed to it and no longer realized how desperately heavy it was. The burrs were gone from the soft tangled press of Blair's furred chest, his skin infinitesimally cooler where water had caught in the curled hair and begun to chill with evaporation. Against Jim's pain-spattered breast, Blair's breathing was a delicate brush of heat. It hurt even while it comforted Jim, and he curled himself around Blair, hugging him closer, trying to store up a measure of the contact he needed for the next inevitable separation. Keeping his eyes closed, he let the warmth and pulse of life in his arms define the world he lived in.

He felt the deeper breath Blair took, ribcage rising with the nascent question, and knew what it would be before the words were spoken. "You want to do the rest now, get it over with?"

 _No,_ he thought sadly. He wanted to stay like he was for a while longer, to keep the illusion of safety and protection wrapped around himself with Blair's embrace. But it was as foolish a wish as the one for his own lost innocence to return and Jim was fundamentally not a foolish man. "OK, Chief," he grated, letting go his hold. "You're the boss."

As he let go of Jim, Blair shook his head. The trailing ends of his wet hair moved across Jim's chest with the motion, identifying the gesture even as he said, "No way, man. You are totally in charge here." In complete contradiction of his words, he pushed gently, and Jim moved back a careful half step, then another, until he was at the back of the tub. "You tell me when something hurts, and we stop. You tell me what you need, and I'll do it." Easing himself back from Jim, muscles tensed preparatory to kneeling, he said intently, "I mean it, Jim, just tell me and it's yours."

 _It hurts to let go._ Jim opened his eyes and looked down into Blair's face, seeing the earnest pleading in it that he had heard in the voice. _Don't let go._ But he kept his silence, because he knew there was no choice. He had learned that tonight, a lesson he had not thought he needed but one he had never really understood before.

With his uncanny accuracy, Blair went on quietly, "I know it hurts to let go. I can feel it in you when I move." His right hand was spread flat over Jim's side, palm cupping the curve of his body below the ribs, and his left held the diminished bar of soap, curled fingers resting against Jim's skin with a matching gentle pressure. "But I'm not leaving, Jim. Never, OK? I'll be right here." He tipped his head and touched his lips lightly to a spot over Jim's heart, and then met his eyes again, trying to smile, very nearly succeeding. "It's just everything else that has to go away."

Looking into those eyes, Jim believed it could be that easy. There would be help, as much as he needed to do what was asked of him. "Make it go away," he whispered, feeling the heat of tears behind his eyes, knowing Blair could see them rising, and would still somehow keep believing in Jim's strength anyway. He swallowed hard, feeling the twist of his mouth pull at the bruise, his lip aching with it.

"I will." Blair's hands moved, his whole body shaking with the fervor of his determination. "I promise, Jim, I promise." For a moment he leaned forward again to press himself to the full length of Jim's body, then he dropped away, leaving goosebumps rising in his absence.

Jim let him go, blinking hard to clear his eyes so his sight could make up for the loss of touch. It wasn't enough, but he shivered once and then relaxed, accepting that it wasn't enough and enduring anyway. He was cold; the tepid shower water drying off his skin chilled him front and back, and the faint hint of heat coming from Blair's presence wasn't enough to keep it at bay. If he let himself try to feel that warmth any more strongly, he feared what else would come with it, his skin too rawly sensitive to discriminate between things which were not painful and those that were. Hands clenched in fists at his sides, he watched Blair with careful concentration as Sandburg eased himself down to one knee, using the tub rim for balance on one side but keeping his other hand, still wrapped around the soap, against Jim's hip.

"Just make it all the same in your mind," Blair said, bringing his right hand across once he was stable, and working up lather between his palms. The backs of his hands rolled awkwardly on the flat plane just below Jim's hip and there was a hint of strain in the way Blair's back was twisted to maintain the position, but he kept on anyway, clearly unwilling to give up even such a small amount of the contact he knew Jim needed so badly.

"The things they did and the sand and the way you felt and the smell of seawater, it all washes off you the same." There were tender reddened bruises on Jim's legs, deeply set marks on the long, corded muscles where he had been kicked repeatedly. With infinite care, Blair smoothed a handful of lather around the curve of Jim's thigh, rubbing in gentle circles to dislodge the sand caught in the fine dusting of hair. "It all goes away," he murmured, brushing the suds downward. Jim could feel the grit loosening and shifting, the weight of each grain on each separate follicle, and the trembling of his own muscles, too weak to stand steady any more, too weak to even stop from shaking. He locked his knees straight and put one hand on the cold, slick tile wall for balance, and let everything else slide away from him with the gentle touch of Blair's hands.

 

* * *

Blair eased his hands around Jim's leg and felt the deep-seated trembling of muscles stressed to exhaustion. His own arms shook with it too, and he had to keep tightening his grip on the soap to prevent it escaping his grasp. It was ironic that with everything slipping away from them, control and strength and dignity, and even the damned soap, what he was doing was working at getting Jim to slough off something else in addition to all he had already lost. Maybe, he mused as his fingers coasted over the complexity of Jim's knee, it was like refinishing a valuable antique. Before you could put on the finish that brought out all the depth and beauty of the wood, you had to strip off all the old layers of shellac and ugly paint that had accumulated over the years. But when they were taken off, all the scars and nicks in them disappeared too, and what was left shone all the more wondrously new.

 _Then again, maybe you haven't slept for almost two days and are starting to totally lose track of reality._ He sighed, closing his eyes for a second as he paused to lather more foam, bowed almost completely over his own upright knee, his forearms resting along Jim's shin. The floating, dizzy feeling surprised him a little, and he opened his eyes quickly, focusing on the need to be careful as he wrapped his hands around Jim's calf. The care he used as he stroked downward and around the hard muscle was for more than Jim's bruised and scraped body. Jim had been battered in ways Blair couldn't touch yet, but he believed the healing would begin with what he could do now. He'd promised Jim, and to keep that promise, he put aside his own desperate need for rest.

"None of it has any power over you," he intoned, voice thick with weariness though his hands were as gentle as ever. "It's in the past, it's gone now, it's so far away it can't touch you any more." The rough edges of the abrasions around Jim's ankle caught the lather in thickened clumps of bubbles, and the way Jim's leg tensed with agony under Blair's hands made his own calves ache in sympathetic tension. A fleeting feeling of deja vu tilted his viewpoint sideways for a moment and then was gone before he could pin down the association. Shaking his head once to banish the disorientation, he concentrated harder on what he was doing. "I know it hurts," he whispered. "But that's all it is. It's just a sore spot, it doesn't mean anything."

He tilted his head back and tried to smile up at Jim's face, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him and trembled even as he said lightly, "OK, it means you should be more careful next time, but that's all. Don't run into the furniture, don't chug hot coffee, don't let the bad guys get the drop on you...." The words were out and ringing in his ears before he knew where his mouth was going with the thought. He clamped his jaw shut with a deliberate effort, but he could still hear the terrible joke, even though he couldn't see Jim's face any more. Squeezing his eyes closed wasn't enough to keep in the tears, any more than he had managed to close his mouth before it was too late. Bowing his head, he fumbled blindly with the soap, conscious of the silence underneath the pattering fall of water on his back.

A gentle weight settled on top of his head, the spread of Jim's hand warm like a benediction. Those elegant fingers moved, a slight shift that was the tenderest caress, and his broken voice said very softly, "I'll be more careful next time."

Twin hot tracks ran down his cheeks, and he wanted to nod his acceptance, knowing his voice would betray him, but he was afraid to jeopardize Jim's balance by moving even as much as the weight resting so lightly on his head. He held still instead, taking slow, controlled breaths and clasping his hands around the soap to stop them from shaking.

Jim's hand moved again, a second blessing, and he said even more gently, "Let it go, Blair. If I can, you can."

 

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	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The hills were still dusky with the flush of spring_

He hadn't realized what he had been asking of Jim, not until Jim quietly asked the same thing of him. Jim's calm acceptance from the very beginning, his trusting willingness to do what was asked of him no matter how difficult, humbled Blair so much he could only rock slightly and moan, "I didn't know."

Jim had known, all along. His touch said as much, and carried forgiveness as well. More than mere absolution, there was gratitude in the weight of his palm. That anchoring contact brought a steadying calm to Blair, and at last he understood what Jim had instinctively seen so much earlier. Everything Blair had been tasked with had been impossible, and all night long his ability to expect the impossible from himself and from Jim had been the only thing that had saved them both. He had known they couldn't possibly succeed, in those deeply terrifying moments when everything spun out of control and he lost his way, but the knowledge hadn't stopped him. He had found his center each time, in the bright, pure blue of Jim's eyes, and gone onward again, making the impossible happen for them both.

Blair looked up into those beloved eyes and found his strength once more. "I will," he said and, faint and cracked as his voice was, it carried the same unbreakable vow given before. His hands weren't shaking any more as he raised them and began on Jim's other leg.

With one last gentle caress, Jim withdrew his hand and slowly straightened the short distance to stand upright again. Blair spoke for both of them as he spread the slippery lather over Jim's thigh and around the curve of it. "This is what I'm sure of, Jim." He took a breath and tried to say everything. Or at least what was most important. "They couldn't hurt who you really are because they couldn't touch your heart. Keep hold of that, and let all the rest drop away from you, because none of it matters any more."

In one long, smooth motion, he swept his hands down and around Jim's thigh, over his knee, sweeping the straight length of his shin. More than Jim's body had been brutalized, he knew that, had seen it in the way Jim tried so hard not to cling to him even though he needed Blair's touch to ease the pain, even though Blair offered the contact so willingly. Perhaps they hadn't been able to break Jim's heart the way they had broken his control and his strength, but they had tried, and they had left open wounds behind. Blair thought he knew the shape of them, and his touch became infinitely gentle, his hands as soft as his voice as he brushed the soap over the fine arch of Jim's foot. "I'll always be there, with you, and I'll always love you. Nothing they did can touch that, nothing at all can change it."

Above him, he heard the ghost of Jim's voice agree as if completing a covenant, "I know." It almost didn't register through the roaring sound of blood in his ears, the feeling of heat rising in his soul. His eyes were fixed on the bruised, torn band around Jim's ankle, twin to the other he had carefully skirted moments ago. The memory that teased at him before had made another pass across his mind, moving slowly enough to be caught and identified this time. Blair had seen scars like that before, and they had made him just as helplessly angry and violently sad that long time ago.

He'd been twelve, old enough to know what cruelty and injustice were but not yet mature enough to accept he couldn't do anything about it. Some people never reached that level, and Naomi and her rancher friend were two of them. The wiry older woman had brought the rescued horse home to her ranch on a sunny day in May, when the sage brush was blooming and the hills were still dusky with the flush of spring. Blair remembered the grim look on her face, the tight anger he hadn't understood until she'd unlatched the back of the trailer and begun to back the mare down the ramp.

The sun had been bright with the peculiar clarity of high altitudes in the dry west, and as unforgiving as the cold winds that keen over the open range in winter. Starved until her ribs were a ridged washboard that threw barred shadows on her sides even in the high morning light, she moved slowly down the ramp. Bands of white scarring marred her pasterns, the hide damaged above and below the fetlocks, and Blair had struggled to understand why anyone would have wanted to hobble something that cooperated with the docile patience he saw in her eyes. None of it made sense to him, not the way she had been treated, and not the way she still trusted to the kindness of the hands of humans.

The strong sunlight of that morning found its echo in the glaring white reflection from the gold-speckled tile wall of the tub, and he reached out, fingers hovering over the flayed skin on Jim's ankle, remembering that thin, battered animal, its long legs, and the cruel signature of its captivity. Like Jim, it had been a creature of unconscious grace and natural strength, and someone had done their best to break it for no better reason than their own envy at not being born that strong and beautiful. And they had failed too, leaving only the passing marks of their presence on an existence that survived and transcended them, ennobled instead of destroyed.

Blair hadn't been able to do anything for that injured mare except feel her helplessness with his own heart, but he had the knowledge and skill to make a difference this time, and the strength to use them. Hunched over, shivering, he touched the unbroken skin above the rope burn with the tips of his fingers, and said with quiet conviction, "It will heal. All of it." He looked up, sand still prickling in his hair and itching against the nape of his neck as he craned backward to meet Jim's intent gaze. "Trust me."

His reward was another of those evanescent smiles created by the slightest shifting of emphasis in Jim's face. Lifting the soap, he laid it in the shallow tile dish and then held his hand up in the spray, turning it until the slick feeling between his fingers changed to the simple slip of clean, wet skin. The touch on his hand startled him as Jim reached out and caught at his fingers, trying without force to re-establish the lifeline. Meshing his fingers with Jim's, he felt the need and trust vibrating through the connection, begging without words for the smallest favor, for the one thing only Blair could give. But instead of rising, Blair scooted back a few inches at a time and tugged Jim forward with him as he went, drawing him by the hand, his grip gently insistent. The spray crested over his own head, and felt so good as it dug into the matted tangle of his hair, but he didn't stop to let it soak through. He kept moving until the water passed over him and he couldn't back up any farther, and the drizzling shower was reaching Jim's thighs.

Jim's hold on his hand had tightened slowly as he moved into the falling water, and kept a trembling intensity as Blair raised his free hand and carefully chased the last of the soap lather off Jim's legs. With slow thoroughness he worked down both at the same time, keeping his touch light, skimming over the reddened, tender areas and only guiding a flow of water over the flayed bands without touching them. His own grasp on Jim's hand was a sensitive pressure only as strong as he could exert without feeling the fingers entwined with his begin to shake. In his voice was all the conviction and affection he felt, speaking what he knew was the truth and making it Jim's truth as well. "Whether it's sand that comes off with soap and water or marks that heal, when it's all gone, it won't ever touch you again. You're still the same man you were, Jim, inside, and to me. Tonight hasn't changed who you are because the outside doesn't matter, and I know who you are. I've seen it. You saw it, too. You know I'm right."

The last white froth slid over the arches of Jim's feet and away, into the gritty expanse of the tub, heading for the drain with as much of the hurt as Blair could force to go with it. His legs shaking with tired strain, Blair braced his hand on the side of the tub and levered himself back up to stand in front of Jim, shielding him again. A small sound, a sigh with a hitch in it, escaped Jim as he leaned forward tentatively until his chest barely touched Blair's, asking permission without even pulling on his hand to bring him closer. Blair's breathing stumbled for a moment at the helpless need held in such close control. _You don't have to ask, Jim, not from me, not ever._

It didn't matter that Jim knew that, he would always ask anyway. Blair moved forward the few inches it took to bring them into full contact, and even he could feel the difference the removal of the sand made. For the first time all night, Jim was able to touch him without flinching from the combined pain and relief, and Blair didn't feel the conflicting guilt at what hurt he caused mixing in his contentment at being able to bring Jim a measure of peace. There was only a fulgent joy at having done the right thing, having done it as well as he could and finding he had been right to try.

Letting go of Jim's hand, he wrapped his arms around Jim's waist, careful to hold him below the scratches crossing his back. "All done, man." He grinned brightly, as if he had known all along they'd get so far. There had been a few times he hadn't, but he knew Jim had seen those times and forgave him every one of them. As Jim's arms rose and encircled him, pulling him willingly closer, hands spreading on his back to slide unencumbered on his skin, he turned his head to press his face to Jim's neck and said in a low, pleading tone, "It can't change you or hurt you again unless you want it to, and I'm asking you not to let it. For me, Jim."

 

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	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The heat of a tear scalded his thumb_

For him. What was one more impossible favor? Jim knew the request was beyond his power to grant, just as all the others had been, and still somehow he had found the strength to accomplish them despite knowing he didn't have it within himself. He had found it within Blair, the only source left to him. With his left arm held as firm around Blair's shoulders as the bone-deep weakness in it would allow, he lifted his right hand enough to slide it across Blair's back, over the peaked curve of his shoulder, up the curve of his neck to rest where the pulse fit so perfectly in his palm. Jim held that heartbeat for a moment, letting it regulate the rise and fall of his own chest, the very beat of his heart. "I'll try," he sighed, and even his words moved in time with the command of Blair's pulse. Behind his closed eyes, a memory of pure white power flickered past, and his touch on Blair's throat gentled further, thumb rising to trace the bristle-shadowed underside of his jaw. "For you, I'll try."

The tensing of muscles as Blair swallowed was like a stronger echo of the pulse beating under his palm, and Jim curled forward slightly, cradling Blair against himself almost as if trying to draw that strong white force within to warm his soul. The vow was no new promise, no great stretch of trust. When had Blair ever asked anything but the impossible of him? Concentrate and smell the roses, listen for the voices a dozen yards away, piggyback his hearing on his sight - it didn't matter how impossible or ridiculous the demand had ever been. Jim had always done it. This time would be no different. If he stumbled, if he failed... he had given up his failures too, at Blair's request. It wouldn't matter. Blair would love him anyway; that pure strong heat between them would never fade, and it would always be there for his heart to draw on when it needed help.

Another swallow rippled under his touch, then the shower water pulsed hot over his left arm at the hollow roar of the toilet in the next unit being flushed, and the bands around his wrist and arm flared with answering heat. He lost sight of his beacon for a moment, floundering in the changing temperatures and the interrupted steadiness of Blair's breathing as he also flinched at the sudden splash of hot water against his back. Plastered down with water, the mat of hair over Blair's chest was a soft, springy pressure against Jim's skin that suddenly resolved into its hundreds of single points of curling silk. The memory under his hand wasn't strong enough any more, and he moved it, up over the angled point of Blair's jaw until his hand covered Blair's cheek, fingertips resting on his temple lightly as the caress of the humid mist rising around them. His thumb laid over the curve of Blair's cheekbone, moving back and forth, sketching the delicate hollow below his eye with that same ethereal touch. The thousand tiny silken springs retreated and blended into a single mink pelt resting gently on his battered skin, soothing the hurt with accommodating softness. "For you," Jim breathed, barely aware and completely uncaring of the way his voice offered all that he was with those words.

The heat of a tear scalded his thumb, making his touch slip and glide over the fragile skin, and he stilled the slight motion, not trusting his own trembling hand. Blair's head turned slowly outward, Jim's thumb rising and riding over the bridge of his nose as his hand stayed stationary. "For you," Blair whispered, the words of his returned pledge ghosting warm against Jim's palm, barely noticeable between the caress of his moving lips.

Jim shivered, his hand shaking over Blair's face, and he drew his touch away, trailing his fingers over those warm, gentle lips, pausing there for the briefest moment in silent thanks before retracing the path his hand had taken and returning to lodge around Blair's shoulders.

Faint, his voice light with attempted humor that could not mask the affection warming its every tone, Blair asked, "So, are we done here?" He turned his head forward again, easing the slight strain Jim could feel pulling taut in the muscles that shifted and rolled under his hands. There was another shift, an inclination away from him, as Blair added, "Let me get the water turned off...."

The hesitation in his movement was nearly imperceptible, the reluctance in his voice so subliminal it was more imagination than perception, but in Jim's state the imperceptible was painfully obvious. "What?" he asked, his voice arresting Blair's withdrawal before it had become more than a lightening of the soft-furred press against his chest.

His forearms rose and fell with Blair's shrug. "Nothing, Jim, really." The aborted intention of movement gathered again, a shifting of emphasis in his balance. Part of him prepared for the action he had announced, and some part of him held back, and Jim could feel the fight between the two, tearing a gap in the seamless purpose Blair had followed for so long.

The conflicting tension in Blair's body was an almost painful reminder of other times the words and the body had not agreed, but the lie was not great enough to hurt Jim, only enough to make him impatient at its futility. "It's not nothing, Sandburg. What do you want?"

Drawing back, Blair looked into his eyes, and Jim could see the conflict there too, buried in the depths under his utterly sincere concern and affection. "OK, so it's not nothing, but it isn't important either. Come on, we need to get you out of here now, dry off so you can get warm and rest."

Jim locked his knees and refused to move. "Tell me." It was more a symbolic refusal than a useful one; he knew he couldn't have resisted the push from a determined six week-old kitten.

Blair sighed in exasperation and tugged at Jim, less insistently than the kitten would have, not hard enough to do anything more than rock against him for a moment before giving in. "It doesn't matter, honest. It's just my hair feels really grungy, and it's not worth messing with."

"That's it?" Jim heard himself making a sound barely recognizable as laughter, and stopped because he could see that it hurt Blair to hear it almost as much as it hurt himself to make it.

The sympathetic pain in Blair's expression resolved into a calmer sureness. "Told you it was nothing." He leaned to the side again, trying to urge Jim to move with him so he could reach the faucets and turn the water off. The movement dragged the mink softness of his skin against Jim's stomach, and the unexpected pressure was too much for the clustered heat of the welts to bear.

Jim's arms tightened around Blair before he could control the reflex, and a harsh grunt of pain caught behind his teeth. A second later he loosened his hold again, deliberately letting go, but Blair had frozen in place instantly, awkwardly half-twisted at the waist, breathing in short, shallow breaths. Eyes closed miserably, he whispered haltingly, "Oh, Jim, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to do that. Whatever you want, man, we'll do it your way. OK? Just tell me what you want. "

With his own pulse loud in his ears, Jim shifted his arms, sliding them apart until his hands rested on Blair's shoulders. Exerting no more force than Blair had pushed against him with, he guided Blair back upright, not sparing himself the contact at breast and belly. He kept Blair close, needing the soul-deep stability of that touch no matter what small cost it claimed. Then he gathered his breath and said slowly, taking great care with each word so the torn roughness of his voice wouldn't bring that terrible look of surprise into Blair's eyes, "Sandburg, wash your damned hair. I'm not going anywhere with you as long as it smells like it does now."

Blair's smile was a bit too cheerful, a bit too forced, and he didn't turn his head fast enough to keep Jim from seeing the overbright sparkle in his eyes. "OK, that's what you want, that's what you get," he said, the pretense his hoarseness was due to having swallowed too much seawater utterly transparent to them both. Moving slowly, keeping one hand laid carefully over Jim's waist, he bent one knee and leaned sideways, reaching for one of the two miniature bottles perched behind the soap. As his hand closed around it, Blair closed his eyes, ambushed by nothing more deadly than the simple memory of where the sample-sized set had come from. An innocent event, from a time when he had still believed in innocence.

 

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	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Souvenirs of the journey_

It had been only a couple of months into their partnership, but Blair had known even at the time that they were building something unique and powerful between them. He had believed, without being utterly sure, that Jim harbored the same feelings, the same instinctive knowledge there was more to their partnership than convenience. Despite their comfortable affinity he hadn't wanted to ask Jim about it and take the chance of pushing something too new and fragile out into the open where it might be damaged while it was still forming. The symbiotic understanding they already had at that point was a continuing revelation, an opening of doors he hadn't suspected could exist, and he was content to walk alongside Jim and open them together. It was much later before he realized how far from fragile their bond had been, even in those early days.

Blair had been sprawled comfortably on the couch reading when Jim had come back from the four-day conference on advanced crime scene forensic procedures. Four days of sitting on hard chairs in over-heated, crowded panel rooms had left the sentinel with a stiff back and a cranky mood, only exacerbated by spending the nights in a hotel that used a citrus based cleaning product so pervasively Jim had complained of tasting it all day long. His call the night before seemed to have been at least subconsciously intended more as a fair warning of what to expect than as simple confirmation of his expected return.

The warning hadn't gone unheard, or been wasted. From the oven a pan of lasagna was filling the loft with its rich, delicious aroma, redolent of oregano and a hint of fresh rosemary under the thick scent of baking cheese. As Jim had come through the door and taken a deep breath, Blair watched the melting away of the unpleasant citrus aftertaste, made visible by the tense lines of unhappiness easing away from the corners of Jim's eyes as he paused after shutting the door and took a second breath. For a moment it seemed as if he were starting the calming, meditative breathing Blair had taught him, then he shrugged his shoulders, dropped his keys in the basket, and crossed the floor to the stairs without more than a perfunctory nod at Blair, as if deciding not to risk finding out he couldn't say anything pleasant quite yet.

Nodding his understanding and giving Jim a mild smile of welcome in return, Blair had retreated to his book, but he was suddenly far less interested in the description of the Kaobawa's ritual invocation of the hekura spirits than he was in Jim's progress unpacking. It was easy to track the mellowing change in Jim's attitude by the quickly decreasing violence of his activity. Smiling gently to himself without even realizing it, Blair listened to the steady evidence of decompression as Jim went from forcefully throwing his unpacked laundry, to tossing items as he extracted them, to moving across his bedroom to replace them, his footsteps changing rhythm as the calm of his home penetrated and then permeated his soul.

It wasn't too long before Jim finished his unpacking and came back downstairs carrying his shaving kit. Without really thinking about it, Blair expected him to head straight for the bathroom to put the last few things away, and looked up in surprise when Jim paused next to the sofa and tossed a plastic bag at his lap. "Don't say I never gave you anything," he said, a half-smile lighting his face as he continued toward the bathroom.

Laying aside his book, Blair untwisted the opening of the hotel dry cleaning bag and dumped its contents into his lap. "Hey!" The little containers of shampoo and conditioner were the same brand and type he habitually bought for himself. He smiled happily at Jim as he emerged from the bathroom and headed straight for the fridge to retrieve a beer.

"That's the right stuff, isn't it?" Jim asked, bringing a second beer over and handing it to Blair. "It smelled the same, anyway."

"Yeah, it's right." The three pairs of miniature bottles were nothing more than the ones supplied free daily by the hotel Jim had stayed at, but they meant more to Blair than the negligible amount of money he'd save not buying them for himself when he traveled. They meant even more than the unnecessary call the night before to inform him of Jim's expected return, couched amid complaints about the boring talks, uncomfortable chairs, and bad smells, none of which had kept Blair from understanding that Jim had called just to talk to a friend after spending most of a week alone in a crowd of his colleagues.

The small offering tossed in Blair's lap meant Jim knew the same thing he did, had recognized that even when apart they were both travelling toward something together, and was acknowledging their shared destination with these souvenirs of the journey they were on. One Blair had hoped at the time, staring down at the collection of samples held in his hand and unaccountably unable to speak for a few moments, would not end for a while yet.

One he knew now, as he straightened in the shower and enfolded Jim in his arms with all the tenderness in his heart, would never end.

 

* * *

Jim felt the unspoken vow in Blair's embrace, the strength of his affection transmuted into a gentleness that made his determination invincible. One more promise being made, in a night full of them, falling like leaves in autumn to color the space around their lives. Around his waist he felt the flex and twist of Blair's forearms as he unscrewed the top off the little bottle, and then the clean, familiar scent rose from it. He remembered dumping those into Blair's lap so long ago, and how he had felt at the time, wondering if Blair knew how much he was trying to say with the casual gift. The smallest smile pulled at the corner of Jim's mouth, just shy of the point where the pain started. Of course Blair had known, that was why he was here now, why the promises being made over and over sounded so familiar. They had made them to each other before, without speaking the words.

He could tell Blair remembered that day, too. It was in the way he leaned forward, making the necessary closeness a deliberate offering of his own, the simple gift of a heart returned in kind. So instead of repeating his own promise, Jim asked hoarsely, "You haven't used those up yet?"

The movement at his sides and back paused on the cusp of pouring, then resumed with more care as Blair tried to get the cap back on without spilling what he had in his palm. Jim felt the laughter in Blair's voice when he replied, "Are you kidding? When would I have a chance? The only times I've traveled since I hooked up with you, we end up sleeping in places where the only running water for a hundred miles is the rain we can't get out of." His sideways cant to replace the bottle on the low shelf was quick, and as he straightened and raised both hands to his head, he added, "At this rate I'll still have a full set left when I turn 50."

The planes of Blair's pectorals shifted and bunched as he started massaging the stuff into his hair, finding it slow going at first. The salt and grimy sand streaks resisted lathering, and the tangles kept the shampoo from penetrating very quickly. Jim tried to relax, letting his arms rest easily around Blair's ribs, careful to keep his head back far enough to avoid being smacked by an incautious elbow. It took a little time, a few caught breaths and muttered curses, before the white foam began to build and provide any relief, and Jim could tell when it happened not just from the expression on Blair's face slowly losing a subliminal tenseness, but also in the way his whole body lost an edge. It was, he thought, the same invisible softening he had gone through himself when the irritation of the sand had been smoothed from his skin, and Jim felt the first small measure of pride in himself he had known for a very long time. He had gotten Blair to tend to himself, and it had been needed, and for the present that was as close to doing something directly for him as Jim could get. However much he wanted to give back the kind of caring he had received, he was practical enough to realize this little favor would have to suffice for a while.

The foam was thin and dribbled through Blair's fingers as he worked at it, trailing down his arms and neck. His face twisted in frustration, and he growled, "Going to have to do this again. Maybe I **will** run out of it before I'm that old." He leaned his head back into the spray, nearly over- balancing himself but clearly unconcerned, trusting to Jim's arms so solidly around him that he could not fall. Eyes squinted shut, he twisted his neck from side to side, trying to get the bulk of the sand to rinse out with the shampoo.

It was working. Jim could feel the grains cascading over his arms, little pointy corners bouncing on his skin as they tumbled over and downward. They hurt, like everything else in the world, but it didn't matter, there was nothing that could have made Jim give up his steadying embrace, save Blair's direct wish.

"Knew I shouldn't have put the top back on," Blair muttered, blinking his eyes open cautiously and squinting to the side to orient himself. He looked up at Jim, still squinting a little against the water running down from his forehead, and asked, "You OK with this, Jim? We can get out now if you want, really."

The tightening of his arms had been what Blair felt, Jim knew, and so he deliberately loosened his grip, giving Blair the leeway to lean sideways again. "I'm fine," he whispered, then cleared his throat and said it again, more firmly. "I'm fine." He wasn't, he was manifestly a very long way from fine, and Blair knew that too, but he wouldn't call Jim on the lie because he wanted to believe it so badly.

Instead, he did what Jim wanted him to, reaching for the shampoo bottle and pouring another dollop of the soap into his palm, arms around Jim once more despite how awkward it was. "Thanks, man," he said very softly as he set the container aside and straightened once more, somehow keeping his back arched so his stomach was pressed against Jim's.

"When those run out, I'll get you some more," Jim said. "I promise."

A single shiver ran through Blair as his breath hitched, and then he was rubbing the stuff into his hair with both hands, as if he were at home on a lazy Saturday morning. His voice betrayed his understanding of how much Jim was saying, all the same. "I know you will."

 

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	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A glimpse of the life Blair would help him reclaim_

The shampoo worked better the second time, breaking into a mass of thick white foam that caught the trailing ends of hair. A few globs of the lather slid away from the rest, coasting down the curve of Blair's spine and over Jim's arms, tingling as the bubbles broke with a constant crackling. Part of it ran over the raw spot on his wrist, and for a moment he didn't realize why the sensation felt so strange. His hands cupped Blair's shoulder blades, then moved upward slowly, as if drawn without knowledge of their goal until his fingers were lost in the heavy mass over the nape of Blair's neck. "Jim?" Blair asked uncertainly, holding very still as Jim's hands covered his.

"It doesn't hurt," Jim sighed, his hands moving languorously, slowly copying the motions Blair had used, somehow turning them from bare necessity to soothing, almost sensual massage. His hands drifted over the backs of Blair's, then sank into the soft, slippery tangle of hair, sliding through the strands until they caught on stubborn knots. The last few grains of sand were sliding through as well, but they were slick and skittered across his skin, bereft of enough friction to scratch as they had before. Besides, the small irritation was easy to ignore under the warmth of Blair's scalp resting in his palms like a gift.

"Oh," Blair breathed, whispering as he lowered his arms out of the way. "OK." He tipped his head back with easy trust, letting its weight settle more firmly into Jim's keeping. Blair shut his brimming eyes and said nothing more, but the way he laid his hands on Jim's shoulders in a relaxed, steadying grip spoke of his invitation. The movement arched his chest against Jim's, pressing their bellies together until the soft, matted hair on Blair's stomach was flattened against Jim's skin, their thighs shifting in contact. There was no sand left between them, and the simple sensation of skin touching skin without pain made Jim relax even more. The weary anticipation of constant hurt was beginning to fade at last.

Blair seemed to feel it too. He brought his hands down and wrapped his arms carefully around Jim's back, his eyes still closed, his head resting trustingly in Jim's hands. Looking down into Blair's face, Jim found a near smile on Blair's lips. The morning's beard darkened Blair's cheeks and chin. The froth of foam swept back from his forehead, and lay in white shadows around the tendrils that escaped Jim's hands and curled against Blair's neck and shoulders.

The contentment on Blair's face and the suds beginning to dribble down his brow made him a sweetly comical sight, save for the dull red bruise still darkening over his jaw. Jim brought his hand forward, wanting to brush away the suds on Blair's forehead before they ran across his face, though his own hands were full of soap as well. He used the side of his wrist to try to sweep them back, and a thinner tendril of foam swept perversely around Jim's wrist and ran down the middle of Blair's forehead. Blair squeezed his eyes shut tighter for a moment, wrinkling his nose, but then he relaxed again, eyes calmly closed as the watery trail of suds crossed one closed eyelid, ran down his cheek and spilled over his lips.

"Sorry," Jim whispered.

Blair just smiled a little more, and squinted open one eye. "S'okay," he murmured back, and then made a face at the taste of soap on his lips.

"Keep your eyes shut," Jim said, softer still. Talking was such an effort. Holding his arms up like this to work his hands through the warm, yielding weight of wet hair and shampoo suds was an effort too, but Blair relaxed against him, his head resting heavier still against Jim's hands, and it did not seem to matter that Jim had no strength of his own left. He was afraid the deep ache in his left wrist would make him clumsy, so he spread the fingers of that hand against the side of Blair's head, fingers working carefully under the weight of soapy wet hair to reach the velvet warmth of his scalp, and simply let his hand rest there. His fingers were still spread wide, palm curved as though he could support the weight of Blair's head if Blair needed him to.

He moved his other hand back across Blair's scalp, pushing his fingers gently through the soft density of Blair's wet hair. The individual strands had a glassy feel against his fingers. When his fingertips touched Blair's scalp, he made slow circles, cherishing the slight yield of flesh over the curve of Blair's skull, the way individual follicles stirred under the gentle pressure, and the quiet sound of pleasure Blair made, not seeming entirely conscious of it.

Letting his hand slide back further, he gathered a palm full of hair, thick with froth that spilled between his fingers and ran down the back of his hand. He felt the jittery agitation of soap bubbles sliding over the abraded flesh on his wrists, but the pain was so faint it didn't matter anymore. At least not at this moment. Errant tendrils of hair slipped between his fingers to veil his hand, and where Blair's hair lay softly over his wounds, there was no pain at all.

He eased his hand up through the silken, foaming locks, more of them spilling around his hand, slipping down his palm and behind his fingers, until he held the curve of Blair's skull in the palm of his hand and the gentle wrap of the strands circled his whole wrist, freeing him for that moment from the memory of captivity. And then again, dropping his hand to gather the soap-heavy ends that prickled against his palm, lifting the tumbled mass until it spilled past his fingers, and his palm and fingertips were against Blair's scalp. The slick strands were beginning to tangle, washed free of sand and grit, glassy silk around Jim's fingers.

Blair let him go, unwrapping his arms from around Jim's waist, leaving a few suds that had trailed from his soapy hands to slide down Jim's back. He brought his hands up and covered Jim's where they were still buried deep in his hair, and said without opening his eyes, "Let's get this rinsed out now, OK? Think we've been in the shower about long enough."

"All right," Jim managed. Though Blair's arms were no longer around him, they were still pressed close, Blair braced against him, his flesh warm, no tremor in the long muscles of his thighs. His breaths were steady and deep, swelling his chest against Jim's with every inhalation. "Tilt your head back," Jim directed, and gently pressed forward with his body, urging Blair back into the sputtering stream from the showerhead.

At that Blair opened his eyes wide, and looked up at Jim for a moment, then shut them again fast, blinking miserably at the soap.

"Told you to keep your eyes shut," Jim whispered. Blair nodded with a rueful smile, still blinking. He slid a step back backward, slowly, being sure Jim moved with him, and dropped his head back into the spray. His hands were still over Jim's. The touch of Blair's palms on the backs of his hands, soap and a few tangled strands of hair between them, and gentle pressure the soft flesh on the underside of Blair's forearms against his own arms seemed to cushion the battery of falling water.

Jim felt the onslaught and winced against it, but he was gazing down at Blair whose eyes were squeezed shut now that it was too late, his nose wrinkled, mouth turned down in a frown of concentration as the water pattered down on his head and their hands, and once more, the pain was less important than their touch. It was so far away and distant he would not have felt it all, save for the trembling weakness in his own body he could not still.

Jim swept his hands back slowly, chasing water and soap between his fingertips. Blair's hands covered his own, protecting him from the direct force of the water as best he could. Blair shifted against him, twisting his head further back so the water ran across his forehead and down his face. He seemed so naked, so vulnerable to Jim in that moment, his arms raised, his eyes screwed shut as water washed across his face. The shampoo was receding in a white line back across Blair's scalp and Jim followed it with his hands, combing his fingers thickly through Blair's hair to allow the water to wash more deeply. Blair's fingers were gently interlaced with his own.

Past the nape of Blair's neck, Jim wrapped his hands carefully under the mantle of wet hair. Blair's hands were guiding him as he gathered the heavy locks off Blair's shoulders and gently wrung the soap and water from the ends. He drew his hands back to Blair's forehead and began again. Blair was resting more of his weight against him, though Jim didn't think he realized it. He was simply exhausted, relaxing helplessly into the meager pleasure of the lukewarm water washing the last traces of salt and sand away.

Jim tried to comb his fingers through Blair's hair again, but with the shampoo suds mostly gone it lay too heavy and close to his scalp. He settled instead for moving his fingertips in slow circles back over Blair's head. Blair's hands still lay over his own. Freed from the weight of grit and sand and salt, the locks were beginning to curl again, even drenched as they were. Jim could feel the implicit coils dragging back from the weight of the water.

Blair was still holding his head back under the water, still counterbalanced contentedly against Jim as the water poured over his closed eyes and ran from the ends of his hair. Jim understood. After this night, the surcease of pain seemed more important even than rest. If it weren't for the trembling weakness in his own legs, he could have stood here like this forever too, holding Blair's head in his hands. He wished he could. He knew what would happen next, after getting out of the shower, drying off, allowing Blair to treat his injuries. It would be a return to the pain and dependence and desperate need. He did not regret his need for Blair, but just for a moment longer it was so sweet to remain still and allow Blair to rest against him. In his gratitude for the tenderness of this moment, a glimpse of the life Blair would help him reclaim for himself, he bent his head and touched his lips to Blair's brow in a brief, soft kiss.

 

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	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The ease their closeness brought him_

Jim tasted the water from the shower and felt the ashen burn of stray droplets. The pain startled him and he drew away, suddenly realizing that for long minutes there had been no pain at all. Blair's eyes blinked open, a little red from sea water, soap, exhaustion and tears, and he squinted up at Jim with a smile. His hands closed gently over both of Jim's, and he drew them down to hold them clasped together under his own chin. "Thank you," he breathed, and turned his head to press his cheek to Jim's knuckles. He took a deep breath. "So, what do you think?" he asked then, his voice a little louder. "Are we ready to get out of here yet?"

Jim couldn't answer. He didn't know the answer, not even for himself, but he guessed that if Blair was asking the question, he must be ready. So Jim nodded, despite knowing he wouldn't like what would happen next. It didn't matter what he liked, and it never really had. Not even to Blair. Blair had always given him what he needed, not necessarily what he wanted, because he loved Jim enough to know the difference. The measure of Jim's love in return was that he had come to want only what he needed, so he tipped his head forward again and said, "Yes," and he meant it.

When Blair drew the rasp of his chin delicately away from their clasped hands and looked up at Jim again, he gave a soft moan of disappointment. "Aw man, you've still got just a little soap on you. That's my fault." He reached up and touched the lonely froths of shampoo on Jim's chest and shoulders. When the warmth of Blair's fingertips left him, Jim felt the skeleton of suds beginning to dry on his flesh, growing stiff and crackly. "Can you step back into the water here one last time?" Blair asked quietly. He put his free hand on Jim's shoulder, but didn't draw him forward yet. "Almost done, Jim."

Jim bowed his head, and when Blair finally urged him to move by bearing down gently on his shoulder, he took the step Blair wanted of him. He could feel the faint wind from the water tumbling overhead, and the sting of drops that splashed off Blair' shoulders and head. A step closer, and the stream broke over his own shoulder. The downpour prickled like needles, every droplet agonizingly distinct on his flesh. The pain was doubly cruel after his respite, but he was stronger and his two-handed grip on Blair's curled fingers didn't tighten to white-knuckled strength. He could stand this, because he knew there would be an ending at last. And Blair would be there with him, just like he was here now, his pulse beating so strong under the sides of Jim's hands where they lay together at the base of Blair's throat, held there with a careful tethering grip. Blair's other hand was cupped against his chest, gathering the water as it spilled down his breast and making sure the last of the soap was washed away. Blair's fingers spread widely, his palm hot and gentle, even though he couldn't avoid every burn as he swept his hand up and over Jim's shoulder. "There," he was saying. "I think that's got it. Does it feel all right to you?"

Jim would have smiled at that, if only his mouth hadn't been hurting so badly. Something of his amusement must have shown in his eyes anyway, because Blair shrugged and grinned enough for both of them. "I know. Nothing feels exactly all right now, but it's better than it was, isn't it?" He reached behind himself, groping one-handed for the faucets. At the same time, he let go of Jim's hands at last and put his arm around Jim's waist, drawing him closer, trying to shelter him with his body even from a change as small as turning off the shower.

He turned the central shower knob and the pipes groaned and clanked, a muffled booming from behind the wall that made Blair flinch, sensitive as he was to every sensation that might pain Jim. Water gushed out from the lower spout, and Jim felt the droplets splashing against his feet and ankles and calves. The pain around his ankles had settled into a steady, monotonous ache, as though iron shackles lay heavily on him, so the bite of water splashing through the imagined fetters surprised him. His head came up at the bracing pain, and he leaned harder against Blair, accepting Blair's support while he assimilated the feeling. It hurt -- almost everything hurt, except where Blair held him -- but it was only a flesh-deep pain. Water on broken flesh, and he could think about it without being lost to it.

"Shh," Blair murmured, his arm tightening around Jim's waist. "I've got you. Tell you what, I want you to step out before I turn the water off all the way. Are you OK with that?"

Jim nodded. Or intended to nod, at any rate, but he couldn't spare much attention to it, not when his entire being was focused on surviving the sensation of loss as Blair eased him to the side. The arm that had been around Jim's back slipped away and grasped his forearm. His other hand lay on Jim's shoulder, warm fingers spread across the point of his shoulder. "Ready, Jim? Slow and easy. I've got you."

"I know," Jim rasped. He brought his hand up and clasped Blair's forearm for support, and lifted his leg high enough to clear the rim of the bathtub. Bending his knee made him realize how long he'd been standing. He heard the sigh that escaped him as he set one foot down gingerly on the bathroom floor. The linoleum was an eighth of an inch deep in lukewarm water. "One thing," Jim groaned. He worked his hand up Blair's arm until he could clamp his hand on his shoulder, then dragged his other foot up and set it on the wet bathroom floor as well. Blair stepped out with him, staying close.

"What's that?" Blair asked quietly. His hands on Jim's upper arms, he coaxed him backward a step and to the side. "Why don't you sit down here?" he said before Jim could answer, helping him sit gingerly on the toilet seat cover. The towel over it was damp from the steam in the bathroom. Putting his hands on Jim's shoulders, Blair looked down at him, wet hair streaming down his face, water pattering down on the utterly overwhelmed little bathmat. "What did you wanna tell me, Jim?"

"This explains the state of the bathroom after you shower in the morning," Jim whispered.

"Very funny, man." Blair grabbed the last towels from the bent rack beside the door and sat down on the edge of the tub, his knees almost touching Jim's. "Just lemme do something about my hair so I'm not dripping all over everything --" he muttered, and leaned backward to turn off the water. The knobs squeaked, metal on metal, and with a hollow, flat 'chunk', the stream of water breaking apart on the porcelain slowed until there were only irregular splashes falling at longer and longer intervals.

"Here, hold this so it doesn't get all wet," he directed, laying one of the towels on Jim's knees. He sat up straighter and tilted his head back so he could wring his hair out with his hands. Water fell in a sheet, splatting noisily on the bottom of the tub. "Man, it feels good to finally get rid of all that sand," he announced, his voice muffled as he bent forward so his wet hair hung over his face in clumps. He toweled vigorously for a minute, droplets falling on Jim's thighs, and then sat up, his face flushed, hair tangled wildly. "There." He reached for the towel that still lay untouched on Jim's knees and said more quietly, "You're still with me here, all right?"

Jim nodded for him, and was rewarded by Blair's radiant smile, as though Jim were the loveliest sight he'd ever seen in his life. "What?" Blair demanded suspiciously, still grinning. He stood up and knotted the towel around his waist, then picked up Jim's towel and draped it over his hand. Jim didn't answer, except to shake his head a little.

"I hate it when you do that," Blair complained. He gathered the towel up so the ends wouldn't fall against Jim as he worked, and carefully began to blot at Jim's scalp, every gesture precise and gentle. "Tell me if this hurts, OK?"

Jim nodded again, barely moving his head. He was cold, he thought, for all the good the realization did him. The thin, lukewarm shower had done little to dispel the marrow-deep chill of the ocean. Blair was patting at the back of his head, trying to avoid the bruise at the base of his scalp, and sitting here in quiet exhaustion under those tender ministrations, the bite of cold seemed to grow fiercer. He shivered hard, and though Blair never stopped, he laid his other hand on Jim's shoulder and said quietly, "Just bear with me here, just a little while longer."

There was a draft from the open bathroom door, and it seemed to find every drop of water on his body, turning each one to ice. Blair was dabbing carefully at his back, trying to blot the water from the shower off his skin a few square inches at a time. Jim could feel every loop in the fraying towel, all of them becoming wetter and heavier as Blair worked, but he could feel the warmth of Blair's hand through the towel as well. He tipped his head forward until his forehead came to rest against Blair. The hair on his chest was still matted flat against his flesh, wet against Jim's forehead, but warmed by the strong heartbeat underneath. His skin smelled faintly of soap, but mostly of damp, clean Blair. At the ease their closeness brought him, Jim was able to lift his aching arms and wrap them carefully around Blair's back, holding him without drawing him closer.

Blair stopped for a moment, the towel resting heavily Jim's back. Jim heard him swallow, and then Blair raised one hand and cradled the back of Jim's head, palm curved to fit the base of his skull. Blair tried to say something, but nothing emerged but a voiceless cry like a swallowed sob. So he went back to patting Jim's back dry in single, careful touches, one after another, shifting closer to Jim to reach further down his back, and after another moment he managed to say in a whisper, "Here's the plan. Let me know what you think."

Jim nodded against Blair's chest. His forearms were resting across the small of Blair's back, and he could tell Blair was cold too. Goosebumps were prickling up his back, and he was shivering. He'd probably been shivering all along, and Jim had been too imprisoned in his own pain to notice. Despite that, Blair's touch remained unshakably tender and slow. He moved as though there were nothing in the world he would rather be doing than blotting water from Jim's back one drop at a time.

 

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	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Blair's faith and laughter_

"See, what I'm figuring is the guy at the front desk could probably be bribed to go out and get something for you. For us, I mean. That way I wouldn't have to go anywhere, which is fine with me because I do not feel like getting out again any time in the next few hours." Blair straightened up, tucking the damp towel between his ribs and elbow so he could take Jim's face in both hands and gently raise it. "I'm pretty sure I passed a coffee shop on the way in. I bet we could get him to bring us some eggs and toast - or whatever you feel like," he added hastily, looking into Jim's eyes. "And there's got to be a drugstore nearby too. Day manager in a place like this is probably used to all sorts of crazy requests, for a few bucks more I bet he would detour over and pick up some neosporin and a box of band-aids too, don't you think?" Blair's hair was hanging down in his face in tangled wet clumps, the ends brushing Jim's face. The expression on his face was a desperate plea for approval.

"And this is going on my credit card too, isn't it?" It was worth the effort of speech to see the relief in Blair's eyes.

"Hey, it's just because I hate to use my card, you know? It takes like forever to pay off that interest." Blair lowered his face and touched his cheek to Jim's forehead for a moment. Then, dropping to one knee in front of Jim, he drew the towel out again, shifted it across his palm to find a dry corner, and began to dab gently at Jim's face.

"But it's different with **my** credit cards?" Jim whispered.

"Well, yeah." Blair shrugged and grinned. "You don't charge me interest." He pressed the towel to Jim's throat, then moved carefully across his right shoulder, one touch at a time. The edge of the towel skimmed one of the burns, a dark memory of suffering imprinted under his collarbone, and a sound escaped Jim.

"I'm sorry," Blair whispered, lifting the towel away. "I'm sorry." He reached up and touched Jim's mouth with his fingertips. "Just a little bit longer now. I'm sorry it hurts."

Jim closed his eyes and tried to feel nothing but the soft press of those fingertips. All too soon Blair had lifted them away and gone back to blotting his way down Jim's arm, avoiding the ragged bands of pain above his elbow and around his wrist. When he reached Jim's hand, he laced their fingers together and held his palm pressed to Jim's until Jim opened his eyes and looked at him. "Do you really mind about your Visa? I guess I just never thought about it."

Jim wasn't strong enough to laugh, so he just looked at Blair, and Blair understood and laughed for him. Just a quiet chuckle as he returned to patting the towel over Jim's skin, a little more awkwardly from keeping their hands locked together as he worked his way down Jim's other arm, one touch at a time. "Tell you what, I'll pay you the interest in housework. I'll take your turn cleaning the bathroom for the next couple of months, how about that?"

Jim nodded a little. "Right. That always works," he whispered.

Blair's eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. "Are you implying I wouldn't keep my end of the bargain?"

"Never." Jim was so weary and so cold that when Blair lifted the towel away for a moment as he stood up to ease the pressure from his bent knee, he followed helplessly with all of his body.

"Gently," Blair murmured, so soft Jim wasn't entirely sure if he were talking to himself or to Jim. He released Jim's fingers, his hand coming up to rest on Jim's shoulder, carefully urging him to sit up straighter as he finished drying Jim's left arm. When he was done he said, "I want to get your legs now, all right? I don't want to use the towel on your chest. Can you sit up just a little while longer for me?"

Jim nodded because Blair wanted him to, and because he would try, since Blair needed this from him as well. He must not have been very convincing, because Blair whispered roughly, "Oh, Jim, I know," and put his hand on Jim's face, bending to press his cheek to Jim's temple, his sorrow and unswerving determination as plain as the kiss his touch stood in stead for. "Just a little more, so we don't get the sheets all wet."

"OK," Jim agreed quietly, and with that soft acceptance, Blair moved back half a step and knelt before Jim, dropping his hand from Jim's shoulder to his thigh.

"This floor is soaked," he complained, wrinkling his nose as he looked up at Jim. When Jim nodded, he smiled again, brilliantly, that expression of his a beacon in that dim, wet room smelling of strangers and mildew and cleaning supplies. But it smelled of Blair's shampoo and soap as well. Blair's imprint was here, as was his own, a subtle overlay of familiarity even here in the wilderness. He reached out to lay his hand on the side of Blair's face, cupping his bruised jaw as Blair began carefully patting the towel over his leg, the terrycloth folded in a rough sort of thick square that covered half the length of Jim's thigh. He patted gently around the outside of Jim's left leg, then the inside, coaxing Jim to open his legs enough to reach the damp flesh high on the inside of his thigh. Blair's touch was gentle and sure, even through the thick padding of terrycloth. He lifted the towel away gently when he was satisfied he had blotted as much moisture as he could, and laid it down again further down Jim's leg, covering his knee, then reaching carefully around and drying the tender flesh at the back of Jim's bent knee as well.

He stopped for a moment and sat back, looking up at Jim as though there was something he wanted to tell him. In the end he didn't speak, he simply covered Jim's hand with his own for a moment where Jim still held his jaw, and then carefully draped the towel over Jim's right thigh and repeated each gentle press down as far as Jim's knee.

Finishing as carefully as he had begun, he took a deep breath, leaning his head into Jim's touch, before lifting the towel away again and folding it into a smaller, tighter bundle which he used to blot his way down each of Jim's calves. He was, if possible, even more careful over the long bones of Jim's lower legs, cupping the hand that wasn't holding the towel gently at the back of Jim's knotted calf. Jim hadn't realized how much tension still trembled in his legs until he felt the muscles tensed fiercely against Blair's palm.

"It's gonna get better," Blair said stubbornly, stroking the back of Jim's leg with a light, easy touch. "I promise it will. You still believe me, don't you?"

Jim finally dropped his hand, but only so he could rest it on Blair's shoulder. It seemed to be enough. Blair bobbed his head, wet locks of hair beginning to curl on his shoulders, brushing Jim's hand. He blotted the tops of Jim's feet and then laid the towel aside. Jim felt Blair's hand curve around the back of his ankle and tug forward, getting Jim to straighten his knee so Blair could run his searching fingers along the sole of Jim's foot. Jim felt an old, familiar square-edged prickle. It was a grain of sand rolling across his flesh, and he couldn't help wincing.

"Easy," Blair whispered, looking up at him. "I'm sorry, I know. There's still just a little bit of sand on the soles of your feet that I didn't get in the shower. Know something? If you could just swing around here and set your feet in the bathtub, I could finish up and get rid of all this sand for good and --"

"Please," Jim rasped, looking away. He couldn't quite manage to face Blair's hopeful eyes as he said it. "Chief, please, can't it wait?"

"Yeah," Blair said immediately, his voice a little too loud. "No problem. Probably pick up more sand getting to the bed anyway. We'll finish up when we get some neosporin on these cuts." He got slowly to his feet, Jim's hand still on his shoulder. "So what do you think?" he asked softly. "Ready to go get in bed? Maybe you can get a nap while I try to get us some breakfast delivered this morning."

"Sounds good," Jim tried to answer. He didn't know if the words were loud and clear enough for Blair to understand, but the meaning must have gotten through anyway. Blair stooped and put his arm around Jim's back, under his shoulders, pulling Jim's arm over his own shoulders in turn.

"Ready?" Blair whispered. Jim nodded and leaned into Blair's support before he tried to stand, the point of Blair's shoulder pressing so hard under his own he could feel the pressure against the artery, the beginning tingles of blood loss at his fingertips. His thighs tensed as Blair began to straighten up, moving slowly to be sure Jim was moving with him.

"We slip on this floor, man, and that's all she wrote," Blair muttered, spreading his legs slightly to brace himself. Jim heard a sound escape himself that was close to a chuckle, and Blair laughed out loud and hugged Jim tighter for a moment, patting Jim's ribs where his hand was spread wide over Jim's side.

Jim stood, Blair's faith and laughter seeming to be all he needed. Far more important than his own lost strength. He swayed, black spots dancing before his eyes, but Blair stood strong, arm wrapped firmly around him, supporting them both. "You're doing fantastic," Blair said, his voice sounding calm and happy. "Just going to get you to bed now so you can get some rest." He turned carefully toward the door, guiding Jim with his whole body. The water on the floor was cold. "OK, so I'm looking forward to a little shut-eye too. That and breakfast."

 

* * *

 

 


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _No music and damned little grace_

Blair pulled Jim with him, one shuffling step across the wet floor at a time, and Jim followed. He was so weary he felt as though he were dreaming, moving through a world where the rules of reality held only faint sway. He closed his eyes and fell away so far and so fast that for an instant there was nothing in the world but the heat of Blair's arm across his back and the thunder of Blair's pulse.

"Hey," Blair whispered urgently. "Come on. Stay with me here, OK?" and Jim opened his eyes, coming back to a chaos of sensation that staggered him. He couldn't remember where they were, far less why everything hurt so badly. He was naked and cold in a strange, uncomfortable place, unfamiliar smells assaulting him, inexplicable pains clawing at him.

"Blair?" he whispered, frightened.

"I've got you," Blair said. "I'm right here, and I'm not letting go, you understand me?" He moved closer, stepping in front of Jim without ever relinquishing his touch, wrapping both arms around Jim's back and holding on tight, his head on Jim's shoulder, forehead against Jim's throat.

The moment of disorientation passed as quickly as it had come. _Must have fallen asleep on my feet,_ Jim thought, the words barely making sense to himself. His ideas and impressions seemed to be reaching him from a very great distance, as though they were someone else's altogether. He realized he and Blair were standing in the doorway between the bathroom and the alcove containing the sink and the open closet. Beyond lay the bed. That's where Blair was trying to take him. He just needed to say awake long enough to reach it, and then he could rest. Blair would take care of everything.

"Simon," he said, concentrating so the word would come out clearly. The way the sibilant buzzed in his mouth made his head hurt.

Blair asked, "What?" They were two steps further along in this clumsy dance Blair was leading, no music and damned little grace in it as they slid their feet along together, thighs pressed to each others' for each shambling step. But the damp hair on Blair's breast was matted warmly between them, Blair's breaths puffing across his shoulder, Blair's strong forearms locked tight across his back. There might not be music, but perhaps he was wrong about their clumsiness. Such determination was grace in itself.

"Need to call Simon," he said, his voice stronger. The consonants took extra concentration to form, and his eyelids felt heavier than all the rest of his body.

Blair huffed out a noisy sigh, and it seemed to Jim there was an emotion behind it he could not understand.

"Chief?" he whispered, and then that damned carpet was underfoot again. The rasp and bite against the soles of his feet claimed everything for a moment and he clung to Blair, unable to move further until the intensity began to fade. It was the memory of pain more than pain itself, he thought, a door swinging wide when his concentration wavered. He would just have to concentrate, like Blair had told him to, and not let that happen again.

"OK now?" Blair asked with trusting optimism. "Two more steps and we're there."

"Simon," Jim said again. Blair hadn't promised to make the call yet, and they had to let Simon know what had happened, where he was. See if the mission could be salvaged.

Whether Jim Ellison could ever be salvaged was another question altogether.

"I'll call Simon." Blair's voice was hoarse. "Just as soon as we get you all squared away. I promise. Aw man, wish I'd thought to get the bed ready for you. Can you hang on just another second for me here?"

Blair was unwinding his arms from around Jim's back. He was going to let go. Jim began to tremble. "Hey, Jim, listen to me." Blair didn't let go yet. His hands cradled Jim's face, and his chest was still braced against Jim's, the towel around his middle damp and prickly against Jim's thighs. "You can do this for me, I know you can. I'm tired enough to fall asleep on top of the covers too, but this'll be better, OK? Warmer. Warm is good, right?"

Jim nodded wearily, not following the explanation, understanding only that Blair needed this from him. He held himself as still as he could, save for the shivering he was too weary to stop, as Blair eased himself away. He circled Jim's waist with his arm for a moment, probably reassuring himself Jim wouldn't collapse as soon as he let go, and then, with a brief, sideways hug, he released Jim, trusting him to stand alone.

He was still close enough for Jim to feel the heat from his body, and when Blair bent forward over the bed, tugging at the comforter, the damp towel around his waist brushed against Jim's thigh. Jim reached out without thought or volition and laid his hand on Blair's back. The last of the evaporating shower water made his flesh cool, and Jim stroked his palm in a circle, only half conscious of what he was doing, wanting somehow to bring warmth.

"These sheets are going to feel scratchy as anything," Blair murmured, his voice sounding pretty scratchy as well. "I know how much you hate cotton-poly blends anyway." Jim felt the rush of wind as Blair yanked the comforter and sheet back, having to tug hard to get the sheet out from under the mattress. Blair kept talking, a soothing murmur of nonsense syllables as he tucked the lower sheet back in and pushed the pillow back where it belonged. "You know, I see undergrads wearing those polyester bellbottoms and jumpers and I just think, man, Naomi wouldn't even wear that stuff back in the seventies." He straightened up and put his arm around Jim's back once more, an easy, companionable touch, his fingers patting Jim's ribs. "You did it," he whispered. "You don't need to do anything now but rest, get your strength back, and I'll take care of everything, I promise."

Jim found himself looking down at the turned down sheets and overstuffed rectangle of a pillow. The sheets and the pillowcase were harsh white. The weave was coarse, and Blair was right, it would feel scratchy as sandpaper against his over-sensitized skin. He could smell bleach and detergent that masked but could not wholly obliterate the rest of its ensemble of odors, sweat and dirt, cigarette smoke and sex, the lingering microscopic traces of perhaps every body these sheets had ever enwrapped. He felt himself following the scents before he realized what was happening to him, and could not imagine letting those sheets touch his body as well. Not after the night's violations. He couldn't.

He turned away from those vile bedclothes, seeking Blair's touch instead. He folded himself around Blair's warmth, and Blair turned to him as though it were nothing but easy, happy instinct to open himself to Jim's touch that way. His chest was cool too, at first, but beyond the first cool touch was the warmth of his heart's blood. His arms went around Jim as Jim sought him, and he strained up on his toes so he could lay his cheek against Jim's. Jim could feel the strain in his thighs even through the wet bathtowel, and with an impatient gesture, Jim dropped his hand and tugged at the damp towel until the rough knot Blair had tied gave way, and the towel dropped to the floor. Now there was nothing between them, not even a barrier as meaningless as that coarse, wet towel. He heard a moan that must have been his own, and he rubbed his face against the side of Blair's head. The smell of Blair's wet hair and the shampoo he had brought Blair himself, once upon a time, that he had lathered and stroked through Blair's hair with his own hands such a short while ago meant so much more than the tawdry ghosts of scent that rose from the bedclothes.

"It's OK," Blair whispered. "I'm gonna be right here. We'll rest together."

Jim reached up slowly, sinking his fingers into the damp tendrils of hair hanging down the back of Blair's neck, trying to understand what Blair wanted him to do now. The world flickered around him, hot, vivid flashes of raw sensation that flared around him and then faded into the soft, silent darkness over and again, every time dragging him further away. His hands cradled Blair's skull, keeping Blair's face tucked warmly against his cheek and jaw. "Like this," Blair said, his lips moving against Jim's cheek, and in the next hot flare, Jim felt Blair sinking away from him. He followed blindly, feeling the press of the mattress at his knee, and Blair's hands on him, trying to turn him, bearing down gently. "Can you sit down?"

He couldn't understand how this was supposed to work, what Blair was asking him to do, and that frightened him badly. How could he have fallen so far he couldn't understand Blair any more? He tried to speak, to let Blair know what was wrong, but only a whimper escaped him, and even that was muffled against Blair's hair and the side of his head.

"OK," Blair said anyway, in that quick soft tone of his, backtracking fast after a miscalculation, determined to make everything all right anyway. His arms locked around Jim's back, hands spread wide, touching Jim, straining up to press his face against Jim's. "Keep listening to me, come on, now, I know you can do this. This is the easy part, I promise." His body was hot and damp against Jim's, a warmth that promised the end of suffering -- or if that weren't possible, at least rest. Ease, and peace. They both needed it so badly.

"Chief," he moaned, and the sound of his own voice startled him almost as much as it did Blair. He felt Blair flinch in his arms.

"Yeah, Jim, I'm right here," he whispered. "What is it?"

Another of the sharp, black flashes came then, like a shutter slamming down upon the world and leaving him weightless in the dark for endless moments before clattering up again. As it opened, the universe rushed upon him with such force he wondered that Blair could stand against it. The intensity faded almost at once with Blair's arms around him so tightly, and before the enveloping dark could claim him again he forced the words from his throat. "Chief -- we oughtta -- get some rest."

Blair snorted, a hot puff of air against Jim's chest. Jim wondered if he was laughing, but all Blair said in a voice scoured by saltwater and tears was, "Good plan, man. Let's give it a shot."

 

* * *

 

 


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Rest, and I'll be right here_

Darkness embraced him again, and when it lifted away, Blair's body was no longer a warm support against his. The cold had come between them, though Blair was still near enough to lace his fingers through Jim's. He tugged irregularly at Jim's arm, and Jim heard the bed springs squeaking and realized Blair was sitting or kneeling on the bed. He was talking to Jim. He had probably been talking all along.

"Like this, Jim. I'm right here. Come on, give me a hand here, all right? For me, Jim. Please." The hand holding his slipped around, Blair's palm hot against the back of his hand, warm fingers curling gently around his wrist, careful to avoid the abraded flesh below the point of bone at the joint. "This way," he whispered. "Come toward me."

Jim's entire body yearned to answer that gentle plea. He came forward, knees pressing unevenly against the side of the bed, and then his palms laid flat on the coarse bedsheets. Blair's hand moved carefully up his arm until his fingers were curled around Jim's biceps. "Almost there," he murmured, and as Jim managed to crawl onto the yielding surface, his knees scraping over the sheet, Blair swayed closer to encourage and guide him. He held Jim's head for a moment, his own close enough for Jim to feel more of the tension leave Blair's throat and jaw as he said, "We're almost done, Jim. Just need to lie down now."

He tried to stay with Blair, but he couldn't seem to force his eyes open, and the darkness came again and again, rushing over him like an advancing tide that retreated less each time, claiming more territory with every sweeping inrush. He was on his hands and knees on the bed, Blair half-bending over him, arm around his back, trying to coax him forward, and then everything was lost to him. When he returned he was propped on his forearms, his head down, and Blair was wrapped around him. Blair's chest was warm against Jim's back, his arms going around Jim's ribs in a brief, fierce embrace.

"I've got you," Blair whispered. Jim could feel Blair's heart beating against his back, a steady, strong rhythm. He relaxed into the pulse of the life that had given everything for him tonight, and felt something more than the strength of body or mind reach him. He wondered if he were asleep again, but it did not feel like dreaming. The heat of Blair's naked chest against his skin was more intimate than any dream could be, and that must mean the rest of it was real as well, the touch of Blair's courageous soul, the coiled red lines of shared strength scrolling over both their bodies.

Jim sighed, not minding even the coarse touch of the sheets against his forehead when his head dropped all the way forward. A shimmering white light shone in the darkness. It surrounded and enfolded him. It blazed through his own emptiness, shining into the hollow places where Blair had taken away all the shame and grief, all that had remained of Jim Ellison after the night on the beach. The light was Blair's, he knew that. Blair's heart and strength. Blair's soul. Jim had nothing left of his own any more, he knew that as well.

But he heard Blair speaking to him. Quiet words, humble with the same awe Jim felt. "Thank you," Blair whispered. "Oh, Jim." His voice was breaking with emotion. "Thank you."

That was no dream either. Blair felt it too, and it wasn't his heart alone that was shining in the darkness, it was the light from their mingled souls, shared strength and hope made into one life now, more than either could ever be alone.

There was no alone anymore. Not for either of them. When the soft darkness took him again he was not afraid. He fell forward willingly, long moments that were deeper and emptier even than sleep. When the world returned in another pulse, the coarse white sheets were under his hip and shoulder. He was curled awkwardly on his side, and Blair was close, bending over him, one hand on his arm for a moment. Then he was closer still, the firm flesh of Blair's belly warm against Jim's ribs, curling hairs dry enough to tickle as he shifted. He looped his arm behind Jim's knees and gently pulled his legs forward, shifting him carefully until his feet were on the bed.

He fell away once more, awaking as the sheet was pulled over his shoulder. He opened his eyes, blinking in the dimness of the motel room, and found Blair very close, gazing down with an expression of great gentleness on his face. His wet hair prickled Jim's cheek.

"Rest, Jim," he said. His eyes glowed in the gray light of the room, so blue and deep Jim half imagined the joined soul he felt so clearly was shining in them now. One of Blair's hands slid under Jim's cheek, lifting his head just enough to slide the stiff foam pillow under his head. Then he released him, but his hand lingered on Jim's face, soft on his brow, then covering his eyes for a moment. "Rest, and I'll be right here, I promise."

 

* * *

Blair lifted his hand away carefully. Jim's eyes were closed again. His brow was smooth, the expression on his face peaceful, as though he had finally escaped the pain at last. Blair wanted so badly for that to be true. "Sleep," he said, moving his lips without speaking out loud, and bent his head so he could lay his cheek against Jim's face for a moment.

When he raised his head again, Jim's eyes had opened. Dark as it was in the shuttered motel room, nevertheless Jim's eyes were bright as a clear sky overhead, the sun of their combined soul shining strong and steady and warm, keeping the clouded gray of pain at bay. Blair felt himself trembling a little, because it was hard to understand how he could feel so much joy when things were still so bad. He smoothed his hand back over Jim's forehead, and realized he was smiling. "Sleep," he said again, and spoke out loud this time. "I'll take care of you."

Jim's eyes closed, giving himself over to Blair as absolutely and as trustingly as he'd done all night long. His breaths went ragged for a moment as sleep claimed him. He shuddered, and the hand that lay open on the sheets closed convulsively. Then as his breathing grew slower and deeper, his fingers slowly uncurled until his palm lay open on the sheets.

Blair drew a deep, shaking breath himself. "That's right," he murmured. "Just rest now." He closed his own eyes for a moment, wanting nothing quite so much as to stretch out beside Jim and join him in what he prayed would be a deep, dreamless sleep. He opened his eyes again before the desire for sleep could become an irresistible force. Not yet. Not while Jim still needed so much.

One hand laying outstretched, palm upward, the other curled over his own heart, Jim looked so defenseless in sleep. The bruises around his wrist were livid against the white sheets, the abraded flesh from the rope burns so dark Blair could almost see the ropes. He moaned at the picture. Jim's strength bound that way, turned against himself, his fight to escape the pain only hurting him more. It must be hurting him still, and there was so little Blair could do to help. He swallowed hard, pushing back the hopeless grief that insistently crept back time after time, no matter how often he vowed to leave behind everything that didn't help Jim. That distancing thing Jim had tried to instill in him so long ago had been the one lesson he had never managed to completely assimilate, but he had never regretted the failure. Not even now, when looking too closely at what had been done to Jim could make his bones feel like lukewarm water.

Jim was shivering, he realized then, little tremors that were more noticeable as he relaxed in sleep. Neither one of them had truly warmed up yet. There were goosebumps on Blair's arms and every draft was a chilly reminder of the night's storm. Moving carefully and slowly, though he doubted anything would wake Jim up at the moment, Blair tucked his own feet under the sheets, and then reached down to pull the comforter up over both of them, tucking it over Jim's shoulder, and pulling it up as high as his own waist. It was a heavy, stiff weight, and he worried a little about burdening Jim with such an uncomfortable cover, but it was better than being cold, he decided.

At the touch of it, Jim stirred a little, his head turning on the uncomfortable pillow, and Blair thought he must have awakened Jim after all. He went very still, watching, but Jim's eyes didn't open again. He was right, nothing would wake Jim up now. The poor man was exhausted. He'd done everything Blair had demanded of him and more, uncomplaining, so strong, even when he couldn't have had any of his own strength left. Borrowing against his own recovery to do what was needed to save them both. Blair laid his hand carefully on Jim's brow, letting all his love for this courageous man fill his heart with tenderness, and didn't mind the pain of unshed tears aching in his throat.

"I need to make that call now, Jim," he said, and his voice sounded hoarse and low as a stranger's. Jim didn't stir. "Just going to get the front desk to bring us some breakfast, a little Neosporin, like we talked about. Some bottled water and stuff, so we can stay in and rest today." He moved his hand to Jim's shoulder, letting his palm rest there until he could feel the warmth of Jim's body even through the coarse bedspread. "That's what we need, more than anything else right now. Rest. And each other." He was a little surprised to hear he had said the last out loud. It was the truth, though, and he was not ashamed of it. The whole rest of the damn world was nothing but distraction and pain to Jim right now. That left only Blair. If he had to be Jim's whole world for a while, then he could do that, even though the responsibility made him shake when he thought about it that way. He took a deep breath, calming himself with the sight of Jim's face, eyes closed in sleep, trusting Blair with everything, then leaned away so he could pick up the telephone on the shoddy night stand between the two beds.

The phone was a heavy old dinosaur, almond colored under an uneven coating of brown grime, with the numbers rubbed off the square buttons. A yellowing card under cracked plastic gave instructions for making long distance calls, and advised that even local calls were twenty-five cents each. The "twenty-five" had been marked out and replaced with "fifty cents" and that in turn had been marked out with a blue pen and "seventy five cents" written in a childishly clumsy scrawl. Blair sighed. _What a dump._ He tucked the receiver between his shoulder and ear so he could keep his hand on Jim's shoulder while he dialed the front desk.

 

* * *

 

 


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Had kind of a rough night_

"Ocean Dunes." The voice was male, bored, and with practice had managed to cultivate a tone that actively quashed even the faintest indication the next words Blair might hear would be, "Can I help you?" In the background, noise blared from the tinny speakers of the black and white TV Blair had seen playing game shows when he checked in the day before. The moment of déjà vu was disorienting, the sense of not having moved through time at all making the night feel even more unreal for a moment. "No, WHAT is Mount Olympus!" the voice barked before Blair could say anything, and he grimaced, holding the receiver farther away from his ear, reflexively looking down to see if the racket had disturbed Jim.

Jim slumbered on, though, and when the voice said nothing more, Blair finally ventured, "Hey there, how's it going?" with far more goodwill than he was actually feeling. "I'm in room, uh, 23, and I was wondering if you could help me out."

There was a pause that would have been silent if not for the bouncing music from the TV that wasn't quite loud enough to cover the sound of something liquid being slurped from a cup right next to the phone.

"Yeah," Blair plunged on. "See, I've had kind of a rough night, and on top of that, I left out some stuff when I packed that I really need, so if there's any way I could get some breakfast, and maybe a few things from the drugstore, that would be great."

With reluctant curiosity, the voice asked, "Like what?" and then hastily added, "Not that we have anybody here who could do that. This is just a motel, not the Holiday Inn."

"Oh, hey, yeah, I understand," Blair agreed quickly, trying hard to be conciliatory without sounding condescending. "But I'll be glad to reimburse you for your trouble. All I need is some toothpaste and a toothbrush," he began, trying to think of innocuous items before asking for medical supplies, "Maybe some shaving cream and a razor --" he hesitated, then finished more rapidly, "And some other things. You want to write this down?"

"Write it down?" the voice asked suspiciously. "How much stuff are we talking here? WHAT is Mount Ararat, you moron!"

Blair found himself tightening his hand on Jim's shoulder, as though that could somehow shield his friend from the coarse racket of the ordinary world. "Look, man," he said quietly, "It's not all that much. I'm just asking you to write it down so you don't forget anything, OK?"

"I'm not stupid, and I'm not going. Get it yourself. The drug store is only a block away and the Dew Drop Inn has breakfast all day long, they're right next door."

This was too ridiculous, after the fight back to sanity and life, to be stopped by a surly kid at the front desk. Blair didn't have time for this. Jim certainly didn't. He wasn't going to prolong this until Jim woke up. "How much do you want?" Blair asked.

The blunt question seemed to be all the clerk had been waiting for, and the answer was so brusquely direct it was obviously a frequently practiced quote. "You pay all costs in cash in advance, $10 on top of any food deliveries, $20 for the drug store stop, $10 additional each five items. Alcohol and porn are extra on top of that."

Blair groaned. "Do me a favor. Just tell me you need the money to pay back your medical school loans, all right? 'Cause otherwise this is really gonna depress me."

Dead silence. Something in the background dinged frantically, and the audience cheered.

"Right, forget it. Look, I'll write out the list myself, and you come around and I'll give it to you with the cash, all right? Can you do it right now?"

Another slurp of anonymous liquid, somewhat more hasty than the previous one. "You got the cash, and I'm on it, dude."

"I've got it," Blair said. "Give me five minutes. And don't knock when you come to the door. I'll be watching."

"Whatever." More compliant with the prospect of a cash contract, but no more polite, the clerk hung up in the middle of his own shouted, "Idiot! It's Kilimanj-"

Blair put the receiver down with relief, careful not to let it clatter despite the anger that had his grip so tight it was a conscious effort to let go. Jim hadn't stirred. "Sorry about that, man," he said anyway, as if the yelling and haggling might have reached Jim somehow, even in the depths of sleep. "The things we gotta do, right?" Jim slept on, breathing softly through his open mouth. He was still shivering. Blair bowed his head deeply, touching his forehead to Jim's shoulder. The hardest thing was going to be letting go of Jim and getting up.

"I'm not going far, I promise." His voice was soft, but pitched conversationally, as though Jim were watching him and listening. "I'm just gonna write a grocery list for Alex Trebeck Jr. at the front desk. Get that Neosporin we talked about. You don't want to get an infection or something after all this, right?" He slid his hand down Jim's arm as he slowly sat up again, lifting his touch to avoid the rope burns, and at last pressing his palm to Jim's hand, lying open on the bed. He laced his fingers between Jim's. Jim's fingers twitched against his own, and his hand felt so cold.

Blair closed his eyes, steeling himself, then he let go and swung his legs around gingerly, sitting up on the inside side of the bed. Jim made a quiet noise when he was released, and his shivers seemed to grow more pronounced, but he didn't awaken. Blair felt an icy guilt that made him shiver as well. It was hard not to feel as though he was abandoning Jim while he slept. Watching Jim tremble, fighting the urge to wrap himself around Jim again, he distracted himself by thinking he should have remembered to ask for some more blankets and towels when he'd been on the phone. It was all right, he told himself. It was all right. He would just remember do it when the kid came around to get the money.

He tugged open the nightstand drawer, looking for some stationery, or at least a couple of sheets of notepaper, and found nothing but a Gideon's Bible. He debated tearing out a few pages no one would ever miss -- the map of the Holy Land in back, or maybe a page or two from Deuteronomy -- but with his luck, the kid would probably try to charge him for it. Oh well, he had a notebook in his back pack.

He stood up, surprised by how wobbly his legs felt. Jim breathed out harshly, but his eyes remained closed. Blair made his way around the bed. His discarded jeans lay in a sandy, wet tangle half-way under the sink, near Jim's. _Oh, right,_ Blair remembered then, he needed his wallet too. The kid wanted cash. He knelt and picked his jeans off the floor by the waistband, wincing at the gritty feel of sand against his fingers. His wallet should still be in his back pocket. It better be there at any rate.

It was, the leather wet and sticky with salt, rough with accumulated sand. He opened it, and little crusts of wet sand drizzled out onto the floor. There was more wet sand in the long pocket for bills, where Blair found fourteen dollars. The money smelled like wet cash and sea water. He'd thought he had a little more than that with him, but it didn't matter, because he also had the emergency C-note Jim had given him such a bad time about. _Guess it's gonna come in handy now, huh, Jim?_ Blair thought, vindicated, and then felt so much like crying he had to squeeze his eyes shut hard for a moment, swallowing against the ache in his throat. He would not face that kid from the front desk weeping. He wouldn't.

He could hear Jim on the bed, his breathing beginning to sound labored. Blair opened his eyes, mentally shaking himself, and quickly dug out the hundred dollar bill from its hiding place behind a debit card for the library copier. He used the back of his hand to brush away a few tears that had trickled down his cheeks anyway.

OK, he had the cash, now to scribble out a list of supplies. He upended his backpack of the floor of the closet and snatched up a leaky blue ballpoint pen and the little spiral notebook he used to jot down ideas when he was trapped somewhere without his laptop. Jim's breaths were louder now, every exhalation sounding like a moan. Blair went to the foot of the bed, clutching his money and the little notebook in one hand. He reached out his other hand and laid it on Jim's leg through the blanket. "It's OK," he told Jim. "I'll be back in just a sec."

Jim was still trembling, and it looked to Blair as though his shivers were getting worse. His head turned restlessly on the pillow, a low sound like a sob escaping him, and Blair couldn't stand it. He scooted around the bed and dropped everything on the bedside stand so he could crawl back in beside Jim, shivering a little himself as he slid his legs under the cold sheets. The space where he had lain close to Jim had cooled already, as if the blanket sucked heat away from the bed rather than retaining it.

Settling in with his back against the headboard, he took Jim's arm and pulled it over his own legs, then let his hand rest on Jim's shoulder for a moment. Jim's eyes blinked open, unfocussed and blind. Blair didn't think he even woke up, not really, but he rolled closer to Blair, ending up with his forehead pressed to Blair's thigh. Blair stroked his head gently and said, "Just rest, now. I'm here. Don't worry about anything. I'm taking care of things now." Blair talked on, more softly, because it seemed to comfort Jim, even in sleep. "Just got to figure out what we need here." He leaned over and got the notebook again. "Just some odds and ends from the drugstore. Neosporin, right. And some Bayer." His voice got softer, mumbling as he wrote. "Some bottled water. You always do all right with Evian, right, Jim? Or Laurel Mountain in case they don't have that. A roll of sterile gauze would probably be a good thing, and some tape. If we smear on enough Neosporin first, I don't think the gauze would be too scratchy for you."

Blair dropped his hand and patted Jim's shoulder gently, running his palm and fingertips across muscles that were still knotted with unreleased tension, even in sleep. He wondered if a gentle massage would be any help at all, or if it would be too much sensory input for Jim for a while yet. Maybe he could try later, after dressing Jim's wounds. He added mineral oil to the list. "What am I forgetting here?" he asked Jim quietly. "Breakfast, right. Toast, scrambled eggs maybe? How about cold cereal and milk. Some coffee?" He wrote everything down.

"How about a toothbrush for you, man?" He smiled a little. "And baking soda. Can't see you managing toothpaste right now." Blair wrote those down as well, and then read over his list. It had already come to take on a talismanic importance to him. This was the little list that would make everything All Right again. "I'll go out this afternoon or sometime and do laundry. After you're feeling better, I mean."

 

* * *

 

 


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The painful, joyous weight_

He dropped his hand again, this time resting his fingers on Jim's head. "Going to have to get up again," he told Jim quietly. "But it's just for a couple of minutes, and I'll be right back." Even in the dim light, Blair could see the drawn lines of tension at the corners of Jim's closed eyes and the edges of his mouth, as though he had closed his eyes in an attempt to remember something terribly important, not like a man escaping into the peace of sleep. Blair kept himself from reaching out and stroking his thumb across the tense lines on Jim's face, despite how he wished to smooth them away. He was afraid the intimacy of that touch would awaken Jim, and he needed sleep so badly. A few hours of real sleep would probably do far more for Jim than Blair could accomplish with a grab bag of supplies from the pharmacy. "Right back," he said again anyway, and his voice seemed to reach Jim in sleep, because Jim breathed out a long, deep sigh, and the hand laid over Blair's thighs twitched.

Blair set the paper and his pen aside, then laid his hand over Jim's and slowly lifted it, freeing himself from Jim's unconscious embrace. "Not going far," he murmured, laying Jim's hand down on the sheet as he scooted away from him. "Just sleep. Don't worry about a thing."

But Jim's eyes opened at once, lost pools of blue alight with fear in the shuttered room, and he cried out for Blair in a voice Blair knew he would hear in his nightmares.

"Jim, no, hush, I'm here, I'm right here." He didn't even know what he was saying as he curled over Jim, laying his cheek against Jim's and trying to wrap his arms around Jim's shoulders. "Jim, I've got you, everything's going to be all right now."

Jim made soft sounds, pressing himself desperately into Blair's embrace. Blair heard his own name, but he couldn't make out anything else. He didn't think Jim was actually saying anything else, still more asleep than awake, voicing cries of need. Exhausted echoes of the things he had screamed only a few hours ago, before Blair had found him, and the thought was more than Blair could stand. No matter how badly Jim needed to sleep, Blair couldn't leave him in that nightmare. "Jim," he said, his voice a little louder. One arm was still behind Jim's trembling shoulders, but he brought the other around as he lifted his head from Jim's cheek, and brushed his fingertips across Jim's moving lips. "Jim, it's all right," he said, desperately wishing he could make that true. "I'm here." He spread his hand across Jim's face, softly stroking Jim's bristly cheek, the skin still a little damp from the shower. "Come on, you remember. It's really me. It's all over now, I promise." He laid his hand across Jim's forehead, gazing intently into Jim's wide, frightened eyes. "You're with me. I won't let anyone hurt you."

Jim gasped for air in short, hard pants, exhaling with harsh subvocal cries as though every breath hurt him. He twisted in Blair's embrace, managing to roll onto his back. The arm that wasn't caught between himself and Blair was flung open, outstretched so it lay off the bed from just below the elbow. His hand clenched into a fist, slowly twisting, muscles flexing up his arm. _As though he were bound, at the elbow and wrist,_ Blair thought, horrified. _Trying to pull himself free from the ropes his body remembers._

"Jim," he pleaded, half-crawling over Jim so he could catch Jim's fist and draw it back. Jim wasn't just damp from the shower, a fine sheen of cold sweat was making his skin moist. "Listen to me, _please_." He managed to tuck Jim's fist under his chin, running his hand gently down Jim's forearm. His other hand was on Jim's face. He spread his fingers across Jim's cheek, then ran his hand back through the soft bristle of damp hair. "Jim," he said a last time, his voice breaking, and Jim's eyes cleared suddenly.

He gazed up at Blair, and his lips moved. "Chief."

"That's right," Blair said, his own voice just as soft.

Jim's fist uncurled against Blair's throat, and his fingers stroked upward, losing themselves in the tangle of wet hair at the back of Blair's neck. "Think I was dreaming," Jim remarked, the tone almost conversational save for the hoarseness of his terribly quiet voice.

Blair nodded. A lock of hair swung down and brushed Jim's face. "I think so. Just take it easy, OK?" He spoke in less than a whisper. "You're safe. We're both safe."

Jim's nod was more cautious. "We're at your motel?" he asked softly.

"That's right." Blair tried to tuck the stray lock behind his ear, but when he did, a wave of damp hair fell in its place. Blair smiled helplessly and tilted his head so at least it wasn't falling in Jim's face. "You finally fell asleep."

"Good," Jim said, his voice soft and serious. "Probably need to rest. Was I asleep long?"

"No," Blair had to tell him. "Five minutes maybe?"

Jim exhaled and his eyes closed. "Seemed like longer," he confessed sadly. He seemed to realize then that he was still holding Blair over him, one hand knotted so firmly in the hair at the back of Blair's neck he couldn't move away, even if he'd wanted to. With an effort Blair could see in the determination on his face, Jim unclenched his fist and let his arm fall.

Blair shifted away, but only far enough to the side so he could stretch out beside Jim, one arm resting carefully over Jim's stomach, his head resting with equal care upon the soft place under Jim's shoulder. He knew the heat of his flesh against the burns on Jim's chest must be hurting him, but this closeness seemed more important to him than whatever pain the contact might have caused. Weak as Jim was, his arm came up behind Blair's back and patted his shoulder, then remained there, cradling Blair in a gentle embrace.

"It's going to be all right," Jim whispered to him, after a long moment of silence. He turned his head to press a brief, soft kiss to Blair's forehead. "I felt it, just before I fell asleep." His voice was so low Blair wasn't even sure he was understanding the words. His heart understood them, though. He felt the painful, joyous weight even while he was still trying to figure out exactly what Jim meant.

"It is going to be all right," Blair murmured in return, telling Jim the one thing he was sure of. He could feel the heat of his own breath warming the space between his face and Jim's throat. "It's going to take a little time, I know, but you'll get there, and I'll be with you the whole time."

Jim went very still, his arm tensing where it lay around Blair's shoulders, and for a moment Blair wondered wildly if he had said that wrong somehow. Then Jim whispered, low and urgent, "Someone's coming."

His arm tightened around Blair as if he would draw him closer, wrap protection around him, and Blair pressed himself against Jim's side to let him know he accepted that shelter, even as he answered very quietly, "Shh, it's OK, it's just the front desk guy coming for the money. He's gonna go get us some stuff."

Jim's breathing paused and Blair knew he was straining outward to verify the identity of the intruder, risking resubmerging himself in the hell of uncontrollable input to ensure no danger approached. With a gentle squeeze, Blair drew Jim's attention back to him. "Hey. Quit that." He patted Jim's side, carefully keeping his movements slow and predictable. "Even if it isn't him, there's nothing either of us can do about it, so don't get all hyper-vigilant on me here." He began wriggling backward slightly, drawing away, and the air felt cold on his skin where the dampness between them made their bodies stick together a little bit. "I gotta get the list, man, and I need you to tell me if I forgot anything."

The arm around his shoulders had pulled tighter instinctively, fighting the separation, but then Jim let it fall open, releasing him completely. Instead of continuing to shift backward, Blair laid down over Jim's arm and rolled onto his back so he could reach the list where it lay on the center stand. Grabbing it, he rolled back, coming to a stop against Jim's side. "OK, I got breakfast here, just plain basic stuff, and Neosporin, some Bayer, bottled water, a couple rolls of sterile gauze, tape, and mineral oil. And I thought maybe a toothbrush for you, and baking soda. We'll want to get out of here eventually. How's that sound?"

"Mineral oil?" Jim asked, a crease of puzzlement between his brows.

"Yeah, I figured you'd probably strained quite a few muscles with -- well, with everything that's happened, and I thought I could work on rubbing those out later when you're feeling better." He raised his eyebrows questioningly. "You think it would help any?"

Jim looked blank, as if he didn't understand the explanation and Blair had to smile quickly to keep his face from crumpling into tears. "Don't worry about it, we'll leave it on the list and if we don't need it, no big deal, OK?" The expression in Jim's eyes was still lost, and Blair wasn't sure what to say next. The, sudden, violent pounding on the door kept him from having to come up with anything.

The sound startled and infuriated him. He could feel the echo of each thunderous contact between the door and the desk clerk's fist in Jim's body flinching beneath him and, twisting in place, he yelled angrily at the door, "I'm coming, already, give it a rest!"

"I ain't got all day, dude, hurry it up." The surly answer yelled back at him was inconsequential, practically unheard under the hoarse gasping sob that rattled in Jim's throat. Pinned by Blair's body over his arm, Jim couldn't curl up, but he was trying anyway, weakly pulling away to face the wall, his legs drawing up and catching on the sheet as he tried to retreat from the assault of sound.

"Oh, god, Jim, I'm sorry," Blair whispered in misery, hunching over him helplessly. "I wasn't thinking at all, I'm sorry." He couldn't even stay here to comfort Jim, not if he wanted to get those supplies. Telling himself that getting the food and medical supplies would help Jim more in the long run, and trying to make himself believe it, he pressed his hand to Jim's cheek. His hand shook with his conflicting need to be only tender. "I have to go, Jim, but it's just for a minute, honest. You gotta hang on here for me, please. Just a minute or two, that's all, I promise."

 

* * *

 

 


	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Accepting without surrendering_

He couldn't afford to linger, all he could do was make his absence as short and effective as possible. Pulling the sheet and blanket up over Jim to shield him from the light that would spill in when the door opened, Blair rolled once again to the side of the bed, pushing himself out as smoothly as he could. He grabbed his hundred dollar bill off the nightstand and was two rapid steps toward the door before he realized he was still naked. The cheap carpet burned his skin as he spun on one foot to stride back toward the bathroom alcove and grab his towel. Knotting it around his waist, he crossed the floor in a few long steps and yanked the door open as soon as he reached it.

Outside, a teenager in cut-offs and a muscle shirt that showed off skinny arms and a white chest, hair hanging down his back in a failed attempt at dreadlocks, was just raising his hand to pound on the door again. Blair grabbed the front of his shirt and drew him close enough to hiss furiously in his face, "I told you not to knock! Can't you follow simple directions?" He glared at the kid, hoping he looked as crazy and angry as he felt. The way the bright morning light outside hurt his tired, scratchy eyes and made him squint fiercely could only have helped the impression.

Pushing back, the gangly teenager tried to free himself with a shove. "Get off me, man!" The weak fabric of his shirt stretched until the neck was pulled out of shape, but he still dangled in Blair's uncompromising grip.

Blair didn't let go. Holding up the list in his other hand, the bill wrapped around the folded paper so its denomination was clearly visible, he whispered in the same angry hiss, "Do you want this gig or not?"

Eyes suddenly alight with greed, the kid reached for it, but Blair yanked his arm back, keeping the money out of reach. "You do it my way, got it? That means you get what I want, you bring it back quickly, you leave it by the door with a full set of clean towels and a couple blankets, and you knock **very** gently before quietly disappearing. Do I make myself clear?" He released his hold on the shirt, pushing with a flick of his wrist to keep the kid slightly off balance.

"Yeah, yeah, all right." Shrugging his shoulders violently to settle his tattered shirt back in place, he grabbed for the bill again, but Blair still held it out of reach. "OK, man, I'll do it your way," he clarified with bad grace, and Blair let his hand drop low enough for him to snatch the note and money.

"Half an hour, no more," Blair told him, no room for negotiation in his tone. "Don't make me come looking." With all the haughty unconcern of someone who knows they will be obeyed because the consequences of it not happening were too dire for anyone to even consider, he pushed the door shut in the kid's face. Leaning back against the cold metal, he took one deep, deliberate breath, emptying himself of the anger and frustration, forcing the tension out of his muscles as he exhaled. Pulling the damp towel from around his waist, he scrubbed at his hands as he moved back toward the bed, wishing belatedly he hadn't had to touch the guy. He knew the brief contact had left a scum of scent on his skin that would disturb Jim.

He dropped the towel at the bedside and slid between the sheets and across the narrow expanse to where Jim still shivered under the covers. "Shh, it's me, I'm sorry, I had to go but I'm back now," he murmured as he carefully peeled the covers away from Jim's face. Eyes squeezed shut, breathing harshly, Jim hadn't moved at all since Blair had left and didn't seem to hear him, so Blair kept lifting the covers and inching forward until he was nestled along Jim's side, tucked around the curves of his body as closely as he could get.

Although the residual dampness was almost all gone, Jim's skin still felt chilled, and as Blair wrapped his arm over Jim's chest, he could feel the tiny roughness of goosebumps between the larger burn blisters. It sent a stab of tenderness through his chest that felt not much different from the sharp knife of sorrow, and made him move more slowly but with focused purpose as he curled over and around Jim. He spread himself over every inch he could cover, enfolding the larger frame within his embrace, wrapping one leg over Jim's, canting his hips and settling very deliberately into place to avoid crushing himself painfully in the process. "We'll get more blankets soon," he whispered, laying his head gently down on the smooth column of Jim's neck, his nose pressed to the bristly underside of Jim's throat. "You'll be warm soon, I promise." The shift of movement as Jim swallowed tickled slightly, and he pressed closer, willing the warmth in his body to seep into Jim's faster.

Jim shivered and tilted his head down, the hard line of his jaw resting on Blair's skull and the arm that had remained outflung when he was alone moved, curling up and around Blair's shoulders, holding him tightly. He swallowed again, though Blair knew his mouth was dry and still burned with the taste of the ocean's salt. His own did, despite the water they'd shared.

When Jim spoke, his voice was faint and his breath trembled with the clenching of his jaw against the cold, making the words slur together. Even so, one ear plastered to Jim's chest so he heard the breath behind the voice as loudly as the speech, Blair understood what Jim said. "He called you an asshole."

He hugged Jim a little tighter, shifting minutely, feeling his skin slipping over Jim's in some places, sticking in others, as he consciously tried to spread himself over more surface area, wishing he could flatten and extend himself far enough to wrap all the way around Jim like a soft comforter. Blair's smile was unrepentant as he closed his eyes and whispered back, "Good, I _was_ one. Sometimes that's the only way to get through to people."

The hoarse, rasping sound of Jim's chuckle sounded under his ear, echoing inside the arch of Jim's chest. The shivers that rippled over his body were decreasing in frequency, and the tension in his muscles was gradually fading away, making it seem like his body was subsiding into Blair's embrace, sinking into the warmth without a struggle. Sinking back down into sleep, Blair hoped, and was relaxing himself, his head resting infinitesimally heavier on Jim's chest, when Jim asked, his voice smoother, not so muzzy, "Is he bringing clothes too?"

"No," Blair answered, blinking awake. His eyelashes fluttered against Jim's skin and there was a flicker of movement under his cheek, like the skin of a horse twitching at a fly's presence. He held still for a moment, then tilted his head differently so when he blinked again, it wouldn't irritate Jim. "You should be resting," he murmured. "Go to sleep now."

Jim's next breath was deeper and steadier, but it wasn't the sigh of incipient sleep. "We'll need clothes," he insisted doggedly, his arm tightening around Blair's shoulders as if trying to make him listen.

"Shh," Blair sighed out gently, not changing the way he was holding Jim. "It's OK, don't worry." But he knew that tone in Jim's voice, the one that indicated a goal had been set. It was a good thing, a sign of increasing recovery, this desire to plan for being well enough to go out and be normal, and no way was Blair going to squelch that confident hope by pointing out how Jim couldn't possibly stand to have the binding friction of clothes against his skin yet. "I'll go out later, when you're better, and get us some stuff," he mumbled, knowing he needed to appease Jim's awakening anxiety about the future. Without thought, he rambled on, only thinking vaguely he should keep Jim from worrying about being left alone, "Or maybe if you don't want me to go, we could call Simon to bring some things." _Shit._

"Simon," Jim breathed, a strange mix of hope and fear in his voice. A moment later he said firmly, "We have to call Simon." A shiver rippled through the length of his body, betraying his own ambivalence.

"No," Blair moaned, and heard the petulance in his own voice but refused to feel embarrassed about it. "Not now, Jim. Would you please get some rest? We can call him later."

Jim's head rolled restlessly in denial. "He has to know." His voice was regaining its earlier hoarseness, his momentary certainty fleeing and leaving the lost, helpless man behind.

Hot anger swept through Blair at the sound of Jim's returning pain. "He already does know," he said, holding tighter to Jim, refusing to let anything between them despite the grunt of pain driven from Jim's lungs at the pressure. "He sent you in there, he was supposed to be watching to make sure you were OK, wasn't he? Where was he? Where was the stinking FBI when you were - "

The weight of Jim's arm around his shoulders had shifted while he spoke but he hadn't noticed it past the terrible images building in his head and spilling out over the walls of control breached by his exhausted rage. Hadn't thought the movement was anything but Jim seeking more warmth from him, which only made him sadder and angrier, until the gentle pressure on his head stopped him in mid-sentence as Jim's palm descended over his ear. Cool fingers laid over his temple, warming as they lingered, holding him steady with nothing more than their own weight. Barely a few ounces, yet it was the ineffable weight of all Jim's trust. Under that touch, Blair felt the tightness in his own body where it coiled around Jim's, and he let it go because it couldn't help. Slowly the anger bled away, loosening its hold inside and without, until it was he who sank unresisting into Jim's presence and drew the strength he needed from the core of their combined power.

A long, slow breath rose and fell underneath Blair's cheek, the small motion reminding him of resting on the swell of the ocean, at ease with its infinitely strong support. "We'll call Simon," Blair said softly, accepting without surrendering. "I'll tell him what happened. Then you can rest."

 

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	54. Chapter 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The ocean of betrayal in Blair's eyes_

The touch at his temple moved, Jim's fingers circling as if that were all he could give, only the reminder of his affection. Through that touch, Blair knew Jim could feel his heartbeat, and the comfort it brought both of them was out of proportion to the delicacy with which Jim's fingertips drifted over the pulse moving under Blair's skin. Blair's breath slowed, deepened, until he drew the same breath as Jim, and breathed out with him, and Jim lay still in his arms, holding him in return, accepting warmth and giving back the reassurance it was helping. It was enough because it had to be, and they let it become the world.

When Jim's hand stopped moving the world began to expand again, the insulating blanket of their separate peace being drawn away, letting the cold sharp edges of their surroundings touch them again. "Call him now," Jim said, and it wasn't a request or an order, but the sound of someone at home talking out loud to himself.

Blair nodded, with the precise degree of introspection that same man would have upon announcing his course of action, and began to let go of Jim, withdrawing from his place with slow care. This time Blair understood the way Jim had resisted being separated from him all night in a more visceral form than he had experienced it before. Pulling away felt like tearing off a piece of himself, each bit of contact a necessary part of his own body and life. As he inched backward, shifting toward the head of the bed, Jim moved also, turning toward him, letting go with the arm around his shoulders and reaching for him at the same time with his left arm. Blair didn't need to pull Jim along with him, he followed with the instinctive need he had displayed all night, tempered this time by his recovery to a conscious level where he was voluntarily acting on his trust. It made the way he shifted to keep himself close to Blair no less heartbreaking for being deliberate. Blair swallowed against the salty tightness in his throat and murmured gentle words of encouragement, keeping the progress they were making slow but steady and, more than anything, kind.

Although the sheets were coarse, their skin had dried enough they no longer stuck damply to the fabric, and the lack of its clinging drag made moving easier. Wriggling the couple feet closer to the phone was a small thing, but when Blair's back was braced against the cheap headboard and Jim was slowly curling around his side nearly mirroring the position they had been in minutes ago, Blair felt the same surge of victorious pride he'd had when they'd first reached the motel. It was a sense of accomplishment enhanced, not threatened, by the way Jim's head came to rest over his heart, the rest of Jim's body settling as closely and carefully around him as he had wrapped himself around Jim.

Blair stroked his hand over the top of Jim's head, curving his palm and fingers to cradle the tender burden of Jim's skull against himself for a long moment before allowing his hand to drift carefully down Jim's neck, to his shoulders and back. The covers had slipped down as they shifted across the bed. Before Blair pulled them up again he moved his hand over the juncture of Jim's neck and shoulder. The muscles were still tight there, trembling with cold or tension.

Blair bore down carefully with the heel of his hand and the pads of his fingers, a gentle, circular pressure over the tensed muscles. "OK," he murmured out loud, though he was talking mostly to himself. "I'm OK, here, Jim. Calm and everything, so you don't need to worry." He moved his hand up to hold the back of Jim's neck again, feeling the heat of the bruise there. It reminded him of what Jim had suffered alone, and Blair swallowed hard, his promise of control a lie seconds after he'd spoken it. Jim was shivering, so Blair reached down and pulled the sheet and comforter up to cover Jim's shoulder. He let his arm rest across Jim's back over the bedclothes, but Jim shivered harder all the same. Blair bent his head and touched a brief kiss to the top of Jim's head. His hair was almost dry, soft and prickly against Blair's lips.

Jim's arms tightened for a moment, and he drew his knee up, his thigh dragging over Blair's knees. Jim's forearm lay heavily over Blair's stomach, and Jim was wrapped so closely Blair could feel the tiny trembles and flinches of Jim's sensitive belly against his own ribs and sides. "Be warmer soon," he promised cautiously, knowing how Jim would react, but he had to ask the next question anyway. "We could wait just a little while, Jim. Just until you feel stronger."

"No," Jim said. He didn't try to raise his head, but the voice rumbling against Blair's chest was level with conviction. "Call him now." Only a moment's hesitation. "It won't get any easier," Jim said, much more quietly.

Blair turned his head to lay his cheek on the top of Jim's head, knowing Jim could probably feel the way he was swallowing back the tears. No secrets any more between them. Not that there ever had been, not really. Both his arms lay across Jim's back and Blair hated to let go, even long enough to reach for the phone. "I'll talk to him," Jim said in that same quiet voice, as though that were the reason Blair were hesitating.

It did make things easier, somehow, though probably not the way Jim had intended. "No, you won't," Blair informed him. He raised his head and groped for the phone, because it turned out releasing his hold on Jim was easier than allowing Jim to believe Blair couldn't do this. "I've got it." He tucked the receiver between his ear and shoulder and punched in Simon's number. "If I let you talk to him, he's liable to talk you into coming in for a debriefing or something. And I'm telling you now, it's not gonna happen that way, so you and Simon can both just deal."

 

* * *

Smoke was still rising all around them from the blackened skeleton of the beach house, and Simon had lit a cigar in what he considered self defense. His team as well as the FBI field operatives were combing the remains of the building and searching the area surrounding it, but the slumped shoulders of his own group told the story of how much hope they had left. The body count from the house had come out to exactly what was expected, and there had been no evidence of any escapees from the firefight and explosion resulting from the dawn attack on the incoming boat and the group waiting to meet it. Though he'd grown accustomed to Jim's uncanny luck, Banks was afraid this time they'd pushed the odds too far. The line of black body bags along the driveway, trimmed with scorched debris, had tentative ID tags taped to them. One of those tags read "Detective James Ellison."

The politics would come next. Whose idea was it that Jim go undercover, who was supposed to be running surveillance on him, who had lost that contact and why had somebody decided Jim would be safe inside when the operation went into the final active phase. Lots of records would be searched, lots of reports would be filed, endless meetings would be held, and an official finger would be pointed, probably at some convenient technical glitch that would relieve the establishment of saying it was anybody's fault. Somewhere along the line, all the people who had known and cared for Jim would have to be told.

A gust of bitter smoke made Simon squint his eyes shut against the stinging. Of all the calls he had to make, he dreaded the one to Sandburg the most. Blair had known something was wrong, had come to him for answers, and had been turned away with the standard caustic refusal. It was such an automatic response Simon hadn't even thought about it, any more than he paid careful attention to the turns on his route to work in the morning. Banks had no idea how he was going to look into the ocean of betrayal in Blair's eyes and admit what had happened. "Hell," he muttered to himself, staring sightlessly over the row of body bags, "I don't even know what happened."

His cell phone chirped and after a moment, he shook himself out of his reverie and answered it, barking, "Banks."

"Simon, hey. It's me. You got a minute?"

"Blair," he said helplessly, wondering how the one person he least wanted to talk to had known to call him at that instant. For a moment he thought of telling Blair he was busy, asking him to call back later or better yet, wait to hear from the department, but though the urge was overwhelming, his conscience spoke louder. "Sandburg, we need to talk."

Blair spread his hand very gently over Jim's back, careful not to move the coarse sheets over Jim's sensitive flesh. "Yeah, I know," he said. He could feel the renewed tension in Jim at the sound of Simon's voice, a faint tightening of the arm that lay over Blair, the way Jim's head turned down against Blair's chest as if he were trying to somehow curl himself even closer. He told Simon, "It's about Jim."

There wasn't going to be any easy way, Simon could see that. "Blair, listen to me. I'm sorry, but Jim is dead. Something went wrong." That was feeble, it sounded impossibly lame even as the words came out of his mouth. How could he justify not knowing what that "something" was, how could he face Blair's grief and anger with nothing more than the statement he didn't have any real clue what had happened? It embarrassed him, and that made him angry enough not to hear anything Blair might try to say to him. He suspected he'd be grateful for the anaesthetizing emotion once Blair understood what was being said. "I'm sorry, I don't have any more information right now," he added pre-emptively, "I'll call you as soon as we know anything definite." At that, he considered he was being kind in not detailing the condition of the body they believed to be Jim's. There was nothing he could say about it that would make the news any easier for Sandburg to take, and he had the feeling Jim wouldn't have wanted Blair to see it either.

"Simon, what are you talking about?" Blair heard the edge in his own voice, a rising anger despite his promise to Jim to be calm. They'd worked so hard, survived so much, and Jim was getting better, Jim was going to be FINE, damn it. Whatever Simon was saying, it made no sense, and worse than that, it struck too hard and fast and low, before Blair could shut him up. Jim was hearing every word, and wasn't that Simon all over? Never really knew what was going on. Couldn't have, or he never would have sent Jim into that house in the first place.

 


	55. Chapter 55

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They hurt him_

_Poor Blair._ Simon had known the shock would be unpleasant, but it was still difficult to have to face the unreasoning, instinctive denial in that normally quick mind. Even worse to have to go on and crush what was left to Blair of joy and hope with what he had to be told. Simon had known he wouldn't enjoy this, but it surprised him to discover how much he hated himself for being the one to do it. In all the roiling unpleasant emotions he could name, the only good one was a tiny, guilty sense of relief he was not face to face with Blair for this conversation. "Sandburg, please, I know this isn't easy for you. It's not easy for me either. All we know right now is that the surveillance lost Jim yesterday for a while, but the clean-up operation this morning went as scheduled. It looks like Jim was in the house when we moved in."

That wasn't strictly true. They knew there had been shooting in the house before the explosion, but he was certain that fact would not be comforting to Sandburg. "We didn't expect him to be killed," he finished, and clamped his jaw so tightly on the cigar he bit most of the way through it. _Of course you didn't expect that, did you?_ The next thought was much uglier. _Or did you, and that's why you told Blair his fear was so ridiculous?_

"Simon." Blair was remembering this morning in the water, trying to get Jim out of the surf, feeling like a ghost, powerless to touch the world around himself. He thought he could shout at the top of his lungs and Simon wouldn't hear him, but he kept his voice soft for Jim's sake, and spaced his words with care. "Simon, you're wrong. Jim wasn't in the house."

 _Of course he was, we found him._ Not that the body they had was easily identifiable, so there was room for doubt, and Simon felt a short, hot flash of hate for Blair because the sudden springing hope his words brought to life would only make everything that much harder to deal with when it was destroyed. Compared to that doomed hope, he definitely preferred the solid, immobile lump of dread that had been settling in his gut all morning. That was reality. That was the way things went. Humoring Blair wouldn't make any of it any easier.

Pulling the mangled cigar from his mouth, he dropped it on the ground and stepped on the smouldering end, and tried to grind out the flare of hope at the same time. "Sandburg, I was here, OK? Nobody got out. We know Jim was here, the car he was using is here. I don't like it any better than you do, but we have to accept it."

This was insane. Jim was stirring uneasily in the shelter of Blair's arm, as though he too were trying to escape that pitiless insistence he had died. Blair raised his hand and covered Jim's head, and he managed to keep his voice low and calm. "Excuse me, sir, but I don't have to accept anything. Would you just shut up for one minute, please? Jim - was - not - in - the - house. He's with me right now." That should have been enough, but he had to go on and insist on the rest of it. "Simon, he's not dead." At that some of the calm broke, his voice cracking and rough, and a few new tears spilled from his raw eyes.

"What?!" People twenty feet away turned to look over at him, but he didn't care. "Sandburg, if this is a joke, it'll be your last. Let me talk to him. Now." Unconsciously his foot was twisting over the flattened cigar, but this time it was his despair he was destroying.

"No," Blair said immediately, both to Simon and to Jim. Jim had let him go, flattening his hand on the mattress at Blair's side as though he intended to sit up and take the phone. "Not right now."

"Put him on," Simon demanded, his hand tightening on the phone with the familiar urge to strangle Sandburg. "This is not a request."

"Frankly, sir, I don't care what you call it." Blair's voice sounded like a stranger's in his own ears. He'd never heard such cold, tight anger from himself. He pressed the receiver against his chest for a moment to muffle the sound and spread his hand over Jim's shoulder, gentle over the sheets, just wanting to call Jim's focus back to him, and away from Simon's frustration. He didn't blame Simon, but he just didn't care right now. "Jim, I'll handle this. Just lie still for me, please, or I'll have to hang up on Simon." He forced himself to make a sound that would pass for laughter. "Don't make me do it, man. I'd never get my observer pass back."

"Blair," Jim whispered, sounding as though he intended to argue about it, but his hand curved around Blair's ribs again, and his head still rested over Blair's heart.

"I know," Blair said, answering the arguments Jim was too exhausted to make on his own behalf. "But it's all right, I can handle this. There's nothing you could tell Simon right this second that I can't do just as easily, so you're just gonna have to live with it for now. Both of you." He brought the phone back up and told Simon, "Jim can't talk to you right now. He's gonna be fine, but right now --" Blair took a shuddering breath before it could all get away from him. "He's gonna be all right, but he needs to rest. He wanted me to call, so you'd know he's all right. So now you know. We'll call back when Jim can talk more, but not now, OK?"

It was not in the least OK with Simon, but he swallowed the automatic roar of command and tried to make his voice sound more reasonable than he felt. It was galling. "All right, Sandburg, what can you tell me? When will Jim be coming in for a debriefing?" Raising his arm, he waved imperatively at Taggart, the closest of his own men, and motioned him closer. Mouthing the words without any sound, he told him, "Trace this. It's Ellison." Taggart's eyes lit up and he grabbed for his own cell phone, turning quickly away from Simon to keep from being picked up on that microphone.

 _Finally._ Blair was a little startled by the change, but he was too relieved to wonder about it. "I don't know when he'll be able to come in. You've got to give us a day or two at least." Blair looked down at the man curled around him. Jim had stopped trying to get up and take the phone. He lay quietly, trusting Blair to take care of things. Blair took a deep breath and plunged on, knowing Simon wouldn't accept a time table like that without an explanation. Not when the Feds were involved. "It's his senses. They're messed up and it's...." _It's like Jim died last night._ "It's pretty bad. We both need some time."

"How bad?" Simon asked immediately, and as if Blair could answer that one question, he could answer everything else, the rest of the questions followed in an urgent stream. "Why is he with you? How did he get there? What happened? Where are you?"

Taggart turned back to him, a thumb up to indicate success. As silently as the request had been made to find the call's origin, he answered, mouthing the name of the small town just south of their present location. It would have been the logical deduction, but it left a hell of a lot still in the air. Making a conscious effort, Simon loosened his deathgrip on the phone and tried to modulate his tone by adding in his best attempt at solicitous consideration, "Look, why don't I come and get you, take you both home. He can rest a day or two or whatever and then come in for the debriefings."

Home. It sounded so good. Blair looked around, envisioning them back at the loft. It would help Jim so much to be back in comfortable surroundings. Everything here was alien and makeshift, nothing familiar for Jim to focus on and feel safe with except Blair himself. "I don't know," Blair said hesitantly. Hardly conscious of what he was doing, he wrapped his arm more protectively over Jim's shoulder. "If -- if you would promise it would be just you, nobody else -- Jim can't handle all that much right now."

"What, Jim? Not able to handle it? Sandburg, I've seen him take a hell of a lot and keep on going. He's tougher than you think. He'll be fine. We'll take him to the emergency room when we get to Cascade, have him checked out, and then drop you off, no problem." There, that was perfectly reasonable, wasn't it? Of course it was. Simon smiled broadly, pleased with himself. Solving these little problems was how he got to be the captain, and it was a skill he was proud of. Sandburg was just being over-protective as usual, and couldn't really come up with a substantive objection to letting the FBI field team leader ride along back to Cascade with them. In fact, he'd have to be grateful because the explanations on the ride would mean Jim would have that extra day or two before the formal debriefing.

It was too late to slam the phone down, Blair thought bleakly, and anyway, he'd promised Jim, but it was so hard to keep talking after that innocent fantasy of home and safety had been wrenched away. Simon just didn't understand the situation -- how could he? -- and didn't have any idea how brutal his reasonable-sounding suggestion really was. _But you know something?_ Blair thought savagely, _To hell with him anyway. To hell with the whole lousy world._ He'd take care of Jim himself. He'd make everything all right again all on his own. "Jesus, Simon, aren't you hearing any of this?" He heard his own voice crack with emotion, and didn't give a damn about that either. "There's not going to be any emergency room. Nobody else is going to see Jim."

He raised his hand to hold Jim's head against his chest, the warm weight dissipating the first, hottest flash of anger, even as it strengthened his determination. He would make Simon understand this. There simply wasn't any choice, especially since Blair wouldn't put it past Simon to come looking for them door to door. "Simon, they knew he was a cop. Do you understand me? They knew who he was, and they hurt him --" Jim flinched against him, at that, though Blair could feel how he tried to lie still, and Blair's paper thin controls were dashed away again. "Where the hell were you last night, Simon? How could you let this happen to Jim?"

 

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	56. Chapter 56

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Like talking to a crazed jumper_

"Wait, wait, slow down, Sandburg. If Jim is hurt, we need to get him taken care of, all right? I just want to help you here." It was like talking to a crazed jumper on a ledge, or one of those nutballs who phoned in bomb threats. Simon had always hated those negotiation exercises, and found himself realizing most of his conversations with Blair had that same out of control feeling. _How does Ellison deal with it?_ "I don't know what happened last night. Things were sloppy in this operation and there will be an investigation, you can bet on it. So let's just calm down and do what's right." Moving toward his car, he motioned Taggart to follow him. Keeping Sandburg talking was never a problem, so he was confident he could stall long enough to reach wherever it was the obviously distraught man had stashed Ellison. "Now, can you tell me what's wrong with him? We'll get him the help he needs, I promise you."

"Blair." Jim's voice was so soft, a whisper of heat against Blair's chest. He reached his hand up and wrapped it around Blair's wrist, those gentle fingers laid across the back of Blair's hand, thumb moving over the tensed muscles on the inside of Blair's wrist where he gripped the receiver violently.

"I know, Jim," Blair whispered, grieving, not even bothering to cover the phone. "I'm sorry." He stroked his hand over Jim's head again and then told Simon in a voice that sounded odd and distant, "There isn't anyone else who can help Jim. It's his senses. They're all messed up, out of control." He bent forward over Jim, as if his body could shelter them both from what he had to tell Simon. He took deep breaths, hissing a little as he struggled to get the words out. "They tortured him with a cattleprod, Simon, and now his control's shot all to hell. It overloaded his senses so badly that --" Blair swallowed hard. "When I got to him, he was trying to drown himself."

"Jesus, Sandburg." Simon felt the shock like a physical blow, the sound of unbearable grief in Blair's voice leaving a blank, helpless feeling behind. Somehow he knew Blair would have sounded like that if Jim had really been dead, and it frightened him more than he wanted to admit even to himself. He paused at his car, standing within the open door, looking over the roof to where Taggart stared back at him quizzically from the other side. This was the sort of problem Simon was supposed to be good at solving, but he had the uncomfortable feeling he was completely out of his depth.

Jim released his wrist and wrapped his arms around Blair's ribs again, otherwise not moving at all. He seemed so calm Blair almost believed it, until he felt the moisture on Jim's cheek.

"Jim," he breathed, "Oh, Jim, you don't have to --" He didn't know what he wanted to say. He set the phone aside, spreading his hand over Jim's face, trying to curl somehow closer to Jim, his arm around Jim's shoulders, his cheek pressed to the top of Jim's head. "I'm right here, Jim. I've got you, you know that." The back of his throat ached with his own tears. "Jim," he said again, more quietly, but his voice was still sandpaper rough, and it grieved him, illogically, as though what hurt him to say must hurt Jim to hear. "Are you in pain? Is something hurting? You -- you've got to tell me. I don't know how to help otherwise."

Jim's arms tightened for a moment. His head moved against Blair's chest. "It doesn't hurt where you are," he whispered to Blair. "It couldn't."

Blair breathed out a sudden sigh, so sharp it could have been laughter. Laughter, tears, they were all the same now; both the sounds of overwhelming emotion as it came roaring through the lost barricades of control. "I know that's not true, Jim," he whispered hoarsely. "I know stuff's hurt you. The shower, everything. But I promise you it'll get better. And I promise I'll be with you the whole way." He covered Jim's eyes for a moment, then petted the side of Jim's head gently and stroked his thumb across the rise of Jim's cheekbone. "We're going to come back together," he said, his voice still soft, but not whispering any more. "Don't even have to ask. You're stuck with me." He stroked his fingers down across Jim's face until his hand cradled Jim's jaw, the pulse in Jim's throat steady against his fingertips. "I won't leave you." His cheek was still resting on the top of Jim's head. "I couldn't. I love you."

The sounds came through only faintly on his cell phone, Blair's voice muffled and so quiet Simon couldn't make out the words, just the tone, the grief and affection coming through with heartbreaking clarity. He didn't know if the pained sympathy he felt was more for Sandburg or Ellison. He had never been able to guess which of them was suffering more acutely no matter who was injured. "Blair...." he tried, having to clear his throat as he spoke.

With Jim wrapped so closely around him, Blair felt the response in Jim's tormented body before Jim even managed the words. Jim's pulse seemed to beat faster under his fingers, and his whole body flinched, not in pain, but as if in helpless reaction to the power of spoken truth. "I know," Jim murmured at last, his voice heating Blair's breast. He shifted against Blair, drawing his left arm back so he could lay his own hand on Blair's chest, beside his face. His palm bore down with a steady warm weight. "My strength," he said, his voice the very breath of love. "My heart."

"Blair, are you still there?" Simon pitched his voice louder, hoping it would carry through the tinny speaker on the other end.

"I won't let anything happen to you," Blair promised desperately. His very soul seemed to ache with the renewed knowledge of Jim's love and trust. "No matter what, I'll keep you safe." He cradled Jim's head to his chest once more before he reached for the phone. "Simon -- " He took a long, shuddering breath, trying to keep his voice level. "I'm the only one who can help Jim right now, so you have to back me up on this. You've got to give Jim the chance to get better. There's no other way. Please. Please, Simon, you've got to."

There was a long silence. "Look, I can't do much from here," Simon finally offered, the blustering air of command gone. He hated admitting he couldn't do anything, but strangely enough, it didn't feel as sickening making the confession to Blair as it did with anyone else. "So much went wrong with this case that everybody's already covering their asses for the inquisition afterward, and every minute of time is being logged and documented. I can't get anyone down there to take you home without the FBI knowing and sending along a pair of goons for Jim's debriefing."

He glanced over the car at Taggart, who was carefully scanning the barely organized chaos taking place in the smoky open area where the house had stood. His expression was neutral, and he was broadcasting "I'm not listening" vibes with nearly comical intensity. The wonderful thing about Joel was that when he decided he shouldn't be listening to something, he was able to actually tune it out. Simon lowered his voice, all the same. "I can stall by not telling anyone the body we have isn't Jim, but that's as much as I can do, and it will only hold for a day or two until the dental comparison is done. Then we have to start looking for him, you understand?"

"So they're all dead?" Blair said, and felt no shame at the relief in his heart. "The men who did this to Jim are all dead?"

There was a time when Simon would have been glad to hear such a normal reaction from Sandburg, but the overtones in that voice were anything but welcome. He'd known Blair wasn't fragile, but he hadn't ever realized how savage he could be. Any last reservations about Jim being in the right hands evaporated. "Yes," he said firmly, quashing any hint of doubt in his own mind so there would be nothing for Blair to pick up in his voice. "Nobody got out of the house before it went up. We haven't found any survivors."

"I'll call you if we need you," Blair told him, thinking there didn't seem to be anything else to say. "Jim's gonna be all right, I know he is." Then he put the phone down with the sense of having won one more battle, not waiting to see if Simon had had anything else to say either. "Did you hear, Jim?" he whispered, stroking the bowed head pressed to his chest, "It's all over."

With a sigh, Simon closed the connection on his phone and backed out of the car's door frame, then shoved the door closed with enough angry force to rock the vehicle where it stood. Taggart turned wide, startled eyes on him and asked in bewilderment, "We're not going?"

"That wasn't Blair," Simon said with precise deliberation, staring Joel in the face. "Jim's not alive."

Joel nodded sadly. "I was afraid not," he agreed mournfully, and backed away from the car himself, closing his door much more softly than Banks had. When Simon indicated with a toss of his head that he didn't need any more assistance, Taggart squared his shoulders and moved back toward the wreckage of the beach house, his somber expression firmly back in place.

It wasn't over, Jim knew better. Bits and pieces of it might be over, as the years he had lived were parts of his life that were over, but this would never be "all" done with. Too much had been broken, too much given away or taken from him, things he would never be able to recover or rebuild. He felt the tears building in his eyes, rolling hotly over his skin and cooling quickly, leaving cold trails behind. Gone, everything was gone, and he had helped in his own destruction, throwing away what was left when Blair asked him to. He squeezed his eyes shut, and the hot stinging tears still found a way to escape.

 

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	57. Chapter 57

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Needles of language_

Jim wanted to be who he had been, with all his heart he wanted to be nothing more or less than the man he had known himself as only a day ago. But even if he could act like nothing had changed, he would never be able to pretend everyone else didn't also know there was a difference now. Simon knew, and pitied him without understanding what had happened. Taggart knew even less, and pitied him the more; Jim was certain he had heard someone moving with Simon and while he had no single thing to identify, the pattern of the impressions had been shaped like Joel. Others would find out, and the story would inevitably spread around him like ripples in the wake of a flung pebble, growing wider even though the stone was lost deep under the surface.

Blair knew, and felt the same pain Jim did, and more for not having been present to save him, or to take the punishment in his place. All the anger that had burned through Jim in his defiance, and all the despair that had left him looking for release in death, he knew Blair understood those emotions just as intimately. How could he not? They had the same heart between them. The source of all his strength, the vault of his soul, beating quietly beneath his cheek where his tears made Blair's skin slick. How could Jim not know in return the guilt and desperate sense of protectiveness that made Blair's hand tremble as he stroked Jim's head with such careful tenderness?

All of it surrounded Jim as he curled over the warm strength of Blair's body, holding his heart in his arms. The dark feelings dredged up by hearing Blair's voice crack and break, the memories he could hear in the catch of Blair's voice and feel in the burning of his own abraded skin, everything washing together until he couldn't tell if the guilt was his or Blair's, or the hope, or despair or the protectiveness.

"We'll be OK, Jim, I promise." Blair's voice was as soft as his hand, gliding down the side of Jim's face, making the promise tangible.

Everything blossomed with that promise, intensifying the rest of what they shared in the existence that was the two of them together, and Jim made no effort to separate himself from it. There was open acceptance around the guilt, indomitable determination with the hope, infinite kindness woven through the despair, and an abiding love in the protectiveness.

He had lost himself in the night and everyone who knew him well would see it, know it, but it wasn't a loss he mourned any longer. He'd said goodbye to the last of himself and watched the shackles fall from his wrists with wondering joy. That had been simple, and what he had been given in its place was worth more to him. A lifetime's dependence on one other soul, who gave him that vow of sustenance willingly with every gentle touch. After being alone for forty years, he had finally come home to rest. Jim turned his head a little, his neck straining as his cheek slid over Blair's tear-wet skin, and he pressed his lips to the warm haven that would keep him safe, the few curling hairs on the side of Blair's breast tickling his nose.

The sheet was coarse and cold on his back and along the top of his hip and thigh, but Blair's skin was smooth and warm, even under the prickling tickle of the curling hairs sprinkled over his thighs and concentrating down the centerline of his torso. Jim didn't see the pattern, or even feel it between their bodies, he sensed it as a sort of shadow within the single ball of light that was his impression of the two of them. Eyes closed, he felt the light on his eyelids, and where his lips touched Blair's skin he could feel the difference in texture where the bruised corner of his mouth rested over the silkier, darker skin at the edge of the aureole. As distinct as that sensation was, at the same time everything else around him felt blurry, unreal, except for the clarity with which he could feel Blair's breath catch, and the way Blair's hand gentled on his face even more, impossible as it had seemed a moment ago that his caress could be any more tender.

The sounds were no more than the movement of Blair's mouth shaping the words, but they were still clear, and Jim didn't wonder at it any more than he questioned the way his own thoughts sounded in his head. "You'll make it. I know you will. Rest now, Jim."

Jim's lips were dry, slightly rough, but Blair felt only the tenderness of Jim's next kiss, silent, utterly trusting assent from a man too exhausted for any more words. "Rest," Blair said again, not insisting, only affirming that he understood. Jim's unshaven cheek and chin were rough against his breast as well, every bristle seeming to prickle across the aureole and nipple as Jim moved his head, almost nodding. Blair let his hand move across Jim's face, fingertips over the eyebrow, gentle as a breath over the heat and roughness of a bruise near Jim's temple, softer still over Jim's closed eyelid. The eyelashes met the soft, short lashes under Jim's eye, intermeshed in a line that Blair traced with his index finger, feeling the individual hairs stir.

"I have you," he murmured to Jim, because it seemed Jim relaxed more completely against him when he was speaking. "Just let me take care of everything now." He straightened his fingers so he could stroke Jim's cheek with the length of his fingers, smoothing down from cheek bone to jaw, then curving his fingers again to touch the flesh under his jaw. The day old bristles prickled, but the skin underneath was soft and hot, still a little damp from the shower. He could feel Jim's pulse and the muscles in Jim's throat when he swallowed. "We're both gonna be OK."

It occurred to Blair suddenly that the kid ought to be back with supplies and food soon. The things Blair needed in order to keep his promise and take care of Jim. Blair's heart sank as he thought about freeing himself from Jim's embrace, even just long enough to make it to the door and pick the stuff up. That was assuming the kid followed directions even that far and didn't do something unforgivable like banging on the door. He'd throttle him in the parking lot if he did.

_Worry about what happens next when it happens. Not before then._ That's what he'd been telling Jim all night long. He needed to remember it himself. Right now there was nothing but Jim's weight in his arms, Jim drifting close to sleep, Blair prayed, if he could just shut out enough of the outside world. Blair bowed his head and rubbed his cheek across the top of Jim's head, and then once more ran his hand down Jim's face. Jim muttered something drowsily against Blair's chest. All Blair could understand of it was his own name. "Yes," he said to Jim anyway. "That's right. The worst is over. I'm right here. I'll be right here." He wondered if he was even making sense anymore. Jim's head moved slowly against his chest. Blair could feel the noble forehead rolling against his breastbone, and then Jim's lips once more.

This kiss was openmouthed, searching. Jim's lips were dry, but his mouth and tongue were wet and warm against his chest, softly rasping across the thicket of curling hair over Blair's heart. Blair's next breath stuttered with emotion. His heart seemed to give a ragged leap, and he could feel the pulse in his throat thundering, racing, running away with him. Jim kissed him again, lips brushing across his chest to find a soft hollow below Blair's collarbone. The touch of his tongue was a warmth and wetness that cut though Blair so tenderly he gasped a little, and then reached to cradle Jim's head with both hands so Jim would know it was all right. Blair understood. His own mouth and nose still burned from the seawater too. It must be some ease to Jim to hold the taste of Blair's flesh in his mouth, as he held the sound of Blair's voice in his head and the beat of Blair's heart in his chest, stronger even than the hurt.

He felt Jim's head growing heavier, rolling at last to the side so he could rest the side of his face against Blair's chest, cheek and temple and jaw bearing down with welcome weight. Jim sighed. Blair felt eyelashes fluttering against his chest, and a last tension escaping the wracked, hurting body that lay over his own. He ran his hand over Jim's head once again, his touch tender and slow and as gentle as he knew how to be, brushing across the drying hair on his head, soft and bristly, warm from the heat of Jim's scalp. "Breakfast should be here pretty soon," he murmured, and lifted his hand to stroke Jim's head again. "Food'll help, right? Some coffee? Probably too much to hope this place'll have decent coffee, but you never know."

His voice was drowsy and low, a little hoarse yet from the salt water, but he kept talking, wishing he could guide Jim into sleep, and half thinking he could if he spoke to him gently enough. At the least he could take away a little more of the pain, and with enough little pieces of it conquered one after another, Jim would be well again. One at a time, the facets of his presence had soothed Jim's senses, from the touch he so willingly gave to stop the hurting in that tormented body to the taste Jim so trustingly took to ease the acid burn of bile and salt. As Jim's breathing became ever slower and easier, Blair knew the sound of his voice was helping too, holding back the memories of whatever vile words had been whispered to Jim, needles of language inserted deftly into his soul's vulnerable eyes, and the echoing sound of his own screams.

 

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	58. Chapter 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Might be great coffee_

"It might be great coffee," Blair said a bit too quickly, a little too loudly, trying to banish the echoes of those screams from his imagination. Jim stirred uneasily, then pressed closer against him, and Blair spoke more carefully as he drew his hand over Jim's head again. The words were less important than the kindness of his touch, whether he caressed Jim with his hand or his voice, and he made them both as gentle as he had ever been before. "It won't be, I know, but remember last night, how good we thought it would taste when we finally got some? It would be so hot and strong and wonderful, and we wouldn't even mind if it was burnt and stale, so long as it didn't taste like seawater."

Jim's head moved the slightest bit, enough to be felt, not enough to tell whether he was remembering the same thing, or agreeing about the coffee, or merely settling more comfortably. It didn't matter. "Aw, Jim, I'm sorry, I didn't tell him to bring any raised glazed donuts with the breakfast stuff. It's hard to screw those up, and you would have liked that better than eggs or cereal even."

The damp spot where Jim's tongue had touched his skin felt cool next to the warmth of Jim's head resting heavily on his breast. It was a transient chill, limited to the surface and gone long before the deep core of banked white heat rekindled by Jim's trust had settled down to a steady background of gentle power. Blair's eyelids drooped, sliding closed as he stroked Jim's head one last time, allowing his hand to continue down past the prickle of hair, skimming over the smooth skin below the hairline until his palm flattened over the coarse weave of the coverlet laying over Jim's back.

In the dim half-light of the room, the shapes of the furniture began to blur and shift, melting into each other and from there into darkness as his eyes drifted shut. The world slowed and quieted until the only thing he was aware of was the loose-limbed weight of Jim's body secure within his embrace.

Another breath and he would have slipped into sleep, the vertigo of its pull drawing him down, but the peaceful fall was broken by a sharp edge of sudden tension that spiked through Jim. With a half-caught breath, Blair jerked awake, his arms tightening protectively around Jim's back. "What is it?" he whispered, raising his head off the pillow and straining to hear what Jim was reacting to. There was nothing he could detect beyond the sound of the air conditioner humming in the room next to theirs and the distant slamming of a door.

Jim's head moved, the weight of it lessening fractionally, the brush of his hair shifting over Blair's skin and leaving cool air in its wake. "Somebody outside," he rasped, his voice so low Blair could barely understand the words.

A second later, a thump against the door made Blair start in alarm, his whole body twitching with reaction. "If he bangs on the door I'll go strangle him myself," he muttered, his arms still close and tight around Jim's shoulders, holding on as if he could protect him from the battering noise. Under the pressure of his hold, he could feel Jim's ribs move with a huff of breath that could only have been a laugh. "I will," Blair insisted with mock severity, an illogical smile pulling at the corners of his mouth and making his voice sound indulgent. "I'll go running right out there and wring his scrawny, pimply little neck. You'd be so proud of me."

Close against his side, Jim's hand shifted, the wrist flexing from its loose drape until the palm rested with deliberate firmness over the curve of Blair's ribs. Then it lifted, once, twice, a gentle pat that brought a quick flash of heat to his eyes, because he knew what it meant. _I already am._ But pride was only a little part of all Jim was telling him, and Blair knew that too. He answered the same way, drawing his hand up to run over Jim's head again, so lightly he put no force on the slight tension in Jim's neck, even though he loved the full weight of that head resting peacefully on his chest.

The second part of his response was harder, but he knew it was as important to Jim. "I'll just go get the stuff," he said, his voice as steady and casual as if there could have been no reason at all why he would not simply stand up and go to the door. As he had known it must, Jim's head nodded, neck stiff with the strain of holding himself suspended above Blair. Sharp heat prickled at his sinuses as Jim dropped his head down to lay heavily on Blair's chest, as if taking one last memory of the sound of his heart, even while he dragged his leg off of Blair's thighs and shifted away to the side, his hand trailing last like a lingering farewell.

All he could do to honor Jim's strength was to act as though he had not noticed the effort it took. As Jim slid the last of his weight off, Blair lifted his arms from around Jim's shoulders and rolled toward the edge of the bed. Moving as quickly as he could without appearing to be in a hurry, he swung his feet over the side and stood up, taking the first couple steps toward the door without thinking of anything but grabbing the stuff and getting back to Jim as quickly as possible. The hoarse sound of Jim breathing his name stopped him in his tracks and he swung around, prepared to slide back in to enfold Jim if it was needed and to hell with the stuff, it could sit out there all day if it had to.

But Jim wasn't calling him back, he was smiling again, those tiny lines around his eyes showing what his bruised mouth could not. "Sandburg," he said, his voice hoarse from disuse, but still stronger than it had been only an hour ago. "Put something on. You'll scare the horses."

Blair snorted in surprised, happy laughter. He put his fists on his hips, trying to be dignified, and suspecting he was anything but. The look in Jim's eyes pretty much confirmed that. "If we haven't scared the horses by now, man, I don't think we've got anything to worry about." Jim actually raised one eyebrow at that. Blair could have kissed him, but instead he grumbled happily, "All right, but only because I couldn't bail either one of us out of a public nudity charge this morning."

He walked back around the bed to the closet alcove. His change of clothes was still stuffed down in his backpack. Clean shirt and jeans, and oh good, crumpled up there at the very bottom, a pair of boxers. He stepped into the boxers and pulled them up, swaying a little when he straightened up too fast. God, he was tired. And it didn't matter. He pushed the weariness aside irritably, like mosquito netting hanging inconveniently before his path, and made his way to the door. He looked over his shoulder at Jim before he opened it. "Probably be a good idea to cover your eyes," he said quietly.

Jim obediently brought his hand up and hid his eyes. Blair swallowed hard and turned back, checking through the spy hole first. There was no one outside that he could see. He eased open the door to find three bags piled up on the sidewalk, leaning on the threshold: a white plastic pharmacy bag, and two grease spotted, brown paper ones. The smell of coffee and toast was maddening, intoxicating. Blinking in the bright sunlight, Blair snatched up the bags and carried them in, depositing them on the dresser by the TV before he turned and pushed the door shut behind himself. Jim was still covering his eyes in that childlike, trusting gesture.

"It's OK, now, Jim," he said. "Hey, we got food." Jim lowered his hand, eyes still closed, little lines radiating out from the corners drawn darker with shadows. "Smells great, doesn't it?" Blair opened the first bag and found, as he expected, two extra large styrofoam cups, coffee stains on their lids. He hauled them both out along with a greasy receipt that indicated breakfast had cost $9.63. That reminded Blair of his change and, with little hope, he checked the other bags as well. There was no receipt from the drugstore, and no change. He sighed. _Oh well._ He'd confront the kid when they got out of here.

He carried the coffee cups to the table between the beds, and set them down carefully. "What do you think?" he asked Jim quietly, easing himself down on the edge of the bed and reaching out to put a hand on Jim's shoulder. "Can you sit up? Maybe try to eat something?"

Jim's eyes opened in the dim light. He looked up at Blair, and then at the cups on the bedside table. "Oh, come on," Blair heard himself pleading. "Just a bite or two? I'm sure it'll make you feel better."

Jim's eyes closed again, but he reached out and grasped Blair's forearm tightly and nodded, his head moving against the pillow. "You ready?" Blair asked quietly. He stood up so he could brace Jim as he sat up very, very slowly. Jim was trembling, his head bowed, the muscles in his shoulders corded and tense with the effort. He propped himself laboriously on his elbow, drawing his knee up and then shifting on his hip so he could rest his back against the head of the bed. "Jim?" Blair reached out, laying the backs of two fingers against Jim's cheek. "You still with me?"

Jim opened his eyes. "With you," he whispered.

"All right," Blair said in quiet triumph. He felt himself beaming at Jim. "It all gets better from here, right? It has to. It just has to." He laid his hand on Jim's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Start with some coffee?"

Jim looked a little uncertain about that. Blair smiled harder and felt an odd, tight pain in his jaw. _Weird._ He put his hand up and felt the sore place at the hinge of his jaw. He couldn't remember where that had come from. So much flailing around tonight, there was no telling when it had happened.

Then he saw the look in Jim's eyes had gone from uncertain to grieved. "Hey," Blair said quickly. "Stop it. I'm fine. We're both gonna be fine, remember? You notice how I keep having to tell you the same thing over and over again?" That wasn't coming out right. He made himself stop babbling and leaned forward, planting his fist on the bed to balance himself as he touched his forehead to Jim's. "And I'll keep telling you," he said, very softly. "Just as long and as often as we both need to hear it. OK?"

 

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	59. Chapter 59

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Blair's smile was almost enough_

"OK, Chief," Jim rasped after a pause that went on long enough for Blair's heart to start thudding in concern.

Blair let out the breath he'd been holding and stood back up, surprised to feel the dull strain in his lower back. Leaning over Jim was awkward anyway, so he settled his butt on the narrow edge of the bed by Jim's hip. "Let's see if it's even still hot, huh?" He patted Jim's knee through the comforter, then reached for one of the coffee cups, finding the styrofoam side warm to the touch. The contents weren't hot, but it was better than nothing. He pried off the lid and slurped a healthy mouthful. So maybe it didn't taste all that great either, but it felt absolutely fantastic going down. He tipped the cup up and gulped another swallow of coffee, and oh man, it felt good, liquid warmth spreading from the inside out. He could practically feel the caffeine flowing into his bloodstream. "We've been waiting all night for this," he said, reaching for Jim's hands, then helping to wrap Jim's fingers around the cup. "But just take a sip. Don't drink too much at once."

Blair's cheeks were flushed, his heartbeat up after just a sip of coffee, the smile on his face gentle and full of hope. Jim drank in the sight of him, then slowly raised the cup to his mouth.

The woman who had poured the coffee had been wearing Charlie perfume, and the coffee itself had been brewed through stale grounds, but Jim noticed those subtler textures only for a moment before the heated air above the coffee brought the acid reek of the drink to his nostrils. It burned like saltwater. Even though the last thing in the world Jim wanted to do was disappoint the hope on Blair's face, he just wasn't strong enough have a sip of that coffee, not even for Blair. He flinched violently, coffee sloshing in the cup, and turned his face from it since he couldn't retreat any other way.

"I'm sorry," Blair choked. "God, I'm sorry. So stupid of me." He took the cup away fast, setting it on the bedside table and smashing down the plastic lid over the top of it with a squeaking that made Jim wince. "I'm sorry," he said again. "So forget the coffee. It's lousy anyway." His face was bleak with disappointment, but when he reached out and put his hand on Jim's shoulder, he managed a smile of sorts. His palm was still warm from the cup, and his breath smelled of coffee. "You OK?"

Jim nodded, then tilted his head toward Blair's hand on his shoulder. "I'll have some later," he promised in a whisper. It was worth the effort of speech to see how Blair's whole being seemed to draw nearer, eyes shining with concentration as though every word from Jim's lips was strength and hope and light to him. His hair was drying into a wild, dark halo around his head, and as Jim spoke, Blair's fingers trembled on his shoulder, and Blair's lips parted into a smile that was as lovely and gentle to Jim's soul as a kiss. "Later, when you can make some of that light roast mocha java for us," Jim said, and swallowed against the dryness in his throat. "When we get home."

Blair nodded, and before he spoke, he lifted the hand on Jim's shoulder and tenderly cupped Jim's jaw. "Sounds great," he said, his eyes saying more. "When we get home." He grinned at Jim again, sad and hopeful. "There ought to be some milk in the other bag, how would that be? Or just the bottled water maybe?"

"The water," Jim said.

"OK. Hang tight just a second for me, all right?"

Jim nodded against the hand still under his jaw, and Blair smiled again at him and got up slowly, the brutally firm mattress springing back as though he'd never been there at all, though Jim could feel the residual heat. Blair didn't drop his hand until he was standing beside Jim. "Be right back," he said again.

Jim nodded again, and only then did Blair relinquish his touch. He took two steps backward, turned and took another two more to reach the dresser. He scooped up the second bag from the diner, and Jim thought resignedly that Blair would probably want him to try to eat the things in that bag. The smell of grease-soaked paper and artificial butter flavor made his stomach knot in queasy anticipation.

Blair grabbed the handles of the plastic pharmacy bag as well, the contents redistributing themselves as he lifted it. Water sloshed in a plastic bottle, and Jim realized how thirsty he was, his throat scoured by sea water and his own screams. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Blair was spreading the contents of the two bags on the crumpled, sandy covers of the second bed. Jim saw the blue and white packaging of sterile gauze and tape, and he could smell, faint over the odors of their cooling breakfast, a chemical, antiseptic tang.

"Here's the water," Blair said, still subdued, but sounding happier. "Even got the right brand for you. Small favors, right?" Blair twisted the lid off, and Jim could smell the water. It was a familiar smell, just like home.

Blair came back to his side, kneeling this time on the bed, one hand on Jim's shoulder as he held the bottle in the other hand. Jim curled his fingers around the plastic bottle, fingers brushing Blair's, and Blair smiled for him again. "Easy does it," he said, supporting and balancing the bottle, but allowing Jim to raise it to his mouth himself.

Moisture touched his lips, crossed his tongue, and filled his mouth. Blair tipped the bottle away when he realized Jim hadn't swallowed yet. It took Jim another moment to convince his traitor senses this wouldn't hurt, and it was less the fact the water tasted exactly like it was supposed to than Blair's hand on his shoulder and Blair's encouraging, half-worried smile that allowed him to take the chance. He swallowed the mouthful of water. It did hurt his sore throat, and worse, he realized with regret, it diluted the lingering taste of Blair in his mouth and on his lips. The next mouthful of water would wash it away completely, leaving him with nothing but the briny harshness that still made his nose and throat ache.

Blair held the bottle, watching him carefully. "A little more?" he asked. As if he knew what Jim was thinking, he reached his other hand up and laid his fingers over Jim's mouth. "It probably hurts some," he told Jim, fingers resting gently against Jim's parted lips, "but I think it'll make you feel better if you can drink a little more. What do you say?"

Blair's fingers smelled of shampoo and glycerin soap, of the kid at the front desk, of Jim himself and the stale, cooling coffee, and still, faintly, faintly, of salt and the sea. And Blair. Blair who was with him now, right here, apparently willing to stand there with that water bottle all day if that's how long it took Jim to decide to take a second sip of water from it. He could smell the slight, sour taint of worried or angry sweat, perhaps from the ordeal of getting Jim from the shower to bed, or his frustration over dealing with the day clerk. Jim could smell blood as well. Not fresh. Just the raw, tender scent of an unhealed wound.

Jim's lips opened further, and he tasted Blair's cut finger, coaxing the memories to return as he kissed Blair's fingertips with a brush of his lower lip, and then, needing more, with the tip of his tongue. He found the rough edges of the cut, and knew Blair's knife had not been sharp, and that his hand had been unsteady in the darkness.

Blair began to tremble. Jim raised his eyes to look into Blair's face, then he wrapped his hand around Blair's wrist and pulled his hand down, turning his own hand over to look at the twin cut on his finger. It was the neater of the two wounds, shallower and cleaner. For him, Blair had been as careful as he could.

"You're right," Blair said, lowering his eyes. "We need to get some Neosporin on these cuts too. But for right now, if you can just --"

Jim looked up into Blair's face, still holding Blair's hand in his own. "How did you know?" he demanded softly.

Blair's eyes darted away, down to their hands, then back to Jim's face. "Don't know what you mean," he whispered. Not precisely a lie, Jim knew, but not the truth either. Jim pressed him because he wanted to know, and not only for himself. He wanted Blair to know too. He wanted it before he took the next sip of water, before he tried to eat any of that congealing breakfast. He needed this, like he needed so much else from Blair. "Blair," he said. "Please. How can it have made such a difference?"

Blair gave up easily. A twist of grief was all, and then it was gone, a sweet, half-rueful smile lifting the corners of his mouth and brightening his face. "Sorry, man. Takes me a while to get things straight sometimes," he said.

"No it doesn't," Jim said. He released Blair's hand and wrapped his fingers around the bottle Blair was still holding faithfully.

Blair shrugged, smiling harder at the touch of their fingers. "OK, so maybe it doesn't. Maybe it's just a little bit more than I want to think about right now." He moved his fingers over the back of Jim's hand. "It hurt you, and I'm sorry for that. It only showed us what we already knew anyway. What I should have known all along."

"It was the right thing to do," Jim said. "You saved my life."

"Jim --"

"You were so beautiful." His voice was soft, wondering, almost distant as he recalled what he had been shown. The vision seemed clearer than ever after his rest, instead of fading as Jim had thought it must. "You always will be to me."

"Jim." Blair's head tilted to one side, lips pressed together tight, as though he were trying to hold back sobs or laughter. When he spoke again his voice was only a whisper. "What'm I gonna do with you?"

Jim shrugged, hardly feeling the pull of sore muscles or the contusions across his shoulders. "Little late in the day to start worrying about that, isn't it, Sandburg?"

A groan of laughter escaped Blair. "Drink the water," he said happily, smiling for real at Jim, and Jim found, as he allowed Blair to tilt the bottle once more to his lips, that Blair's smile was almost enough, after all. It couldn't wholly substitute for the touch of him, the taste of him, but it strengthened Jim anyway. Gave back another piece of what had been taken from him. Fed his very soul.

 

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	60. Chapter 60

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Cold and heavy going down_

The next sip of water hurt less. He could feel the liquid weight of it as he swallowed, rolling all the way down his throat, feeling like so much more than the small mouthful he knew he'd actually taken. He rested for a moment then, assimilating the unfamiliar sensation of slaking his thirst. It felt surprisingly good. A little too sharp, verging on the edge of being too intense, but he took in the sight of Blair's smile again, and decided it was good.

He allowed Blair to tip another swallow into his mouth. There was a fleeting, sharp sensation in his belly after he swallowed, and he squeezed his eyes shut, tensing, afraid it would grow worse.

"Jim?" Blair took the bottle away and put both hands on Jim's shoulders. His voice was anxious, his gentle, broad hands comforting and warm.

Jim opened his eyes. The momentary cramp faded as quickly as it had come. "So how about that breakfast?" he whispered, mostly for the pleasure of seeing the smile come back to Blair's face.

"Right," Blair agreed. He set the water bottle down on the bed side table. "Before it's all stone cold. What are you in the mood for? We've got Special K --" He held up the little box, rattling it for Jim's benefit. Jim grimaced, and Blair laughed out loud. "Sorry, I know. Who eats this stuff? Anyway, there's milk too."

Jim could smell the milk through the waxed carton, and knew it was watery and thin. "Skim, Sandburg?"

Blair grinned again, looking back at him through a curtain of hair. "It wouldn't hurt you to have skim every once in a while. Or even heaven forfend, the two percent." Jim rolled his eyes at that, a small enough effort to be rewarded with Blair's chuckle. "Never mind, man. They're your arteries, not mine." He pried open a styrofoam box squeakily, releasing moist smells of cooling eggs, sausage and toast. "Did they even give us anything to eat with?" He rattled around the bottom of the grease spotted paper bag and produced a sealed packet with a small, white plastic knife and fork, a sliver of a napkin, and a packet of salt and another of pepper. "No spoon," Blair announced. "Guess they knew we wouldn't be eating the Special K." He brought the food and the flimsy tableware back with him, and sat down on the bed beside Jim, his back against the headboard too, the styrofoam container on his lap. Jim leaned toward the depression Blair's solid weight made in the mattress, ending with his shoulder hard against Blair's. Blair turned his head and smiled broadly. "So bon appetite, right?"

He stabbed at the eggs with the fork and took the first bite himself. He chewed once, tasting thoughtfully, then swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed under the bristly flesh of his throat. Then he shrugged and stabbed another mouthful of scrambled eggs with the fork. "Besides being kinda cold, they taste OK to me." He lifted the fork toward Jim's mouth. "Wanna try it?"

_No._ The eggs were fresh, but the grease on the griddle hadn't been. Last night's hamburgers, Jim supposed. And the onions that had gone on top of them. The butter flavored vegetable oil the buns had been toasted in. Sausage from this morning, and the morning before, and the morning before that. Bacon fat, chicken, pork chops, beef liver. The mingled scents curled in his gut and soured on the back of his tongue, and he shut his eyes, trying to swallow back his nausea.

"Jim." Blair's bare shoulder nudged against Jim's. "Hey, come on, you're concentrating way too hard on this. Open your eyes."

He did what Blair wanted, opening his eyes to the shuttered dimness of the little room that was their whole world now. Blair lifted his other hand and brushed the back of his fingers over Jim's cheek. "See?" Blair said. "Just relax here." He touched Jim's cheek again, stroking gently this time as he lifted the bite of eggs to Jim's mouth with the other hand. "A good ol' cholesterol packed American breakfast -- always been your favorite, right? Gotta tell you, I never understood how you could eat this stuff day in and day out under the best of circumstances."

Jim ate the first bite of eggs, trying to concentrate on Blair's fingers resting against his cheek instead of the taste and smell and texture of the scrambled eggs. Blair's skin was very dry after the ocean and the shower and Jim could feel the flesh stretched tight, Blair's knuckles almost coarse against his cheekbone. The sensation only made Blair's tenderness more profound. He tipped his head against Blair's fingers, seeking more of that touch and Blair said, "Open up, OK? Just another bite." Jim obediently ate another bite of eggs. Blair's shoulder was warm against his own, and Blair's smile as Jim swallowed for a second time was more important than the lingering taste of old grease and the way his stomach tightened uncomfortably as he ate. "So what do you think?" Blair asked. He forked eggs into his own mouth and wolfed them down before grinning at Jim. "Not too bad, are they? How about some toast?"

Jim nodded because it was easier than trying to argue his way out of it. Blair picked up a triangle of dubiously buttered toast and tore a bite-sized corner off it. It looked distinctly rubbery. Probably toasted hours ago and microwaved to heat it up. Jim wondered with determined idleness why restaurants did that. Wouldn't it be quicker to just toast it once, when it was ordered? Blair's fingers touched his lips. Jim opened his mouth without Blair having to ask, and Blair laid the bite of toast on his tongue as carefully as a priest bestowing the host. He patted the side of Jim's face and then caressed the line of his jaw for a moment, as if he knew Jim needed the distraction of his touch.

Jim did need it. The grease on the toast was colder than the bread and seemed to lie thick on his tongue when he chewed. Jim shuddered as he swallowed, and Blair's hand slipped down, found Jim's hand, and held tight. "Breakfast of champions," Blair said, and smiled despite the sympathetic pain Jim could see reflected in his wide eyes.

Blair looked down after a long moment at the rest of their breakfast. There were two sausage patties as well, appetizing as a pair of caraway-flavored hockey pucks. Blair poked at one of them with the fork. "Want some of the sausage?" he asked.

"No."

Another of those sweet, quick grins from Blair. Jim would never get tired of that smile. "OK, then I'll eat 'em," Blair announced. He stabbed at one with the plastic fork. The sausage was overcooked, so tough that at his first attempt the flimsy plastic tines didn't pierce it. Blair chuckled and stabbed again, more determinedly, and hoisted the sausage aloft like it was a trout he'd landed with his fishing spear. He bit off half, chewed a couple of times, then made a face and swallowed with an effort, wrinkling his nose at Jim. "Good call, leaving the sausage alone. How about some more water?"

Jim nodded, feeling the tug of aching muscles in his back and shoulders, and the scratch of the pillow case against the raw flesh at his shoulder blades. What he really wanted to do was curl up here beside Blair, shove that plate of barely edible food off Blair's lap and lay his own head there instead so he could feel Blair's hand stroking his head as Blair's soft voice gentled him into sleep. He felt too tired to even do that much. "Yes," Jim whispered. "Please."

"You're just doing great," Blair said. He reached for the water on the bedside table and handed it to Jim, holding it until Jim could take the bottle himself, and then keeping his hand right there anyway, palm under the base so Jim wouldn't have to support the weight of it alone. Jim spared enough strength for a slight, half-skeptical smile at Blair before putting his mouth on the cruel plastic lip of the bottle and taking another sip. It felt cold and heavy going down, the water in the bottle only room temperature, but even that was chill enough to leach away warmth. Blair was insisting with a soft laugh, though his eyes were deadly serious, "Don't give me that look, man, you **are** doing great -- " when Jim's stomach cramped hard against the weight of food and water. He doubled over, shuddering in weakness and pain as his gut cramped again. He was afraid he was about to be sick, and god, it would hurt, he knew how much it would hurt. So much he didn't know how he'd survive it. He swallowed violently, fire burning his throat. He felt a splash of water against his chest, then over his hand as the water bottle dropped, heard Blair curse in despair and fear, catching it before it spilled all over the bed (thanks, Chief) and lay it aside somehow as he tried to curl around Jim.

"Easy," Blair was saying, the harsh edge of panic still roughening his voice. "Easy, Jim, careful. You're all right. I've got you. I'm right here. I've got you."

Jim lay helpless in Blair's arms, his forehead pressed hard against Blair's throat and shoulder, his eyes squeezed shut, trying to hold on, and it was so difficult in a world where nothing was stable any longer, nothing held still. He shivered in a thicket of sensation, countless paths radiating out from him. To set foot upon any one of them, to allow himself to touch or hear or taste any sensation at all might whirl him out into a place where even Blair could never find him again.

The bathtub faucet was still dripping, one drop at a time. He tried not to listen as one more droplet hit the gridwork of the drain, but its weight on the skin of water broke the surface tension that spanned the interstices, and he followed it down as an even smaller droplet slipped through the grill to splash in the standing water in the trap. Waves spread out to the walls of the pipe, making the pipe itself vibrate and ring, and the ringing of the pipe made the tile floor in the bathroom shimmer with vibrations as well. They spread to the poured cement floor under the green shag carpet in the dark little motel room, and then even the bed where Blair lay holding him shook with the vibrations from that single drop of water.

A second fell.

 

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	61. Chapter 61

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The drift was fast and easy_

"Jim." This time a gentle hand touched his face and covered his ear for a moment, making the endless vibrations recede and grow dim. He felt a scratchy, warm cheek rub across the top of his head. "Hey, come on." It seemed he could feel Blair's quiet voice moving in waves through the bones in his face. Every other sound in the universe -- and Jim thought maybe he had heard them all tonight -- was cold and distant and dull measured against the intimacy of Blair's voice. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat and surged with the salty tide of his blood, as much a part of him as his own pulse.

"I'm here, Jim. I'm here. I've got you." His hand touched Jim's cheek again, stroked his shoulder, then both arms wrapped close around Jim's shoulders, holding him, rocking slightly. Blair's head was pressed warmly against his, voice caressing Jim as gently as his hands. "Easy, man. Easy. It's all right. It's all right."

The thread of attention snapped and Jim gasped at the return to himself, stomach muscles aching and a burn in the back of his throat. The world was still terrifying, chaotic, utterly overwhelming, but Blair was stronger than all of it. Strong and certain and sure, and he had promised he wouldn't let go. In gratitude, Jim brought his hand up, feeling it tremble in weakness, and spread his fingers across Blair's chest. His face was still pressed hard to the safety of Blair's throat and shoulder. "I think -- " Jim began, and his voice was so croaking and hoarse he broke off, wondering if anything he could say would be worth the effort of speech.

Blair turned his head, lips nuzzling Jim's hair as he answered for him. "You think you've had enough breakfast?" His voice caught as though he were about to laugh. "All right." It wasn't laughter, at all; it was only a razor's edge from tears. "All right." Then a whispered, "I'm sorry."

At that, Jim found the strength to speak anyway. He raised his head, pushing hard against Blair's chest to manage it, and found Blair's sorrowing eyes, heavy lidded with exhaustion and regret. "You finish up for me," Jim rasped, and had to swallow to gain enough voice to finish. "We'll go out later. Must be some place in this town that can make me a decent burger, right?"

Blair stared at him, hands resting light on Jim's shoulders. His mouth twisted. He bit his lower lip, breathing hard for a moment through flared nostrils. "All right," he whispered, when he could speak. His hands came up and cupped Jim's face. "We'll go out later, when you're ready." Jim shifted away from Blair, slowly, painfully, and worth every iota of effort if it showed Blair that he was doing the right thing, that he was helping Jim. As if Blair could believe anyone or anything else could have brought Jim back so far. When his back was once more against the headboard, his shoulder against Blair's, he dropped his hand and took Blair's, holding him, palm against palm. He meant to say something, but his eyes drifted shut, and then it was easier just to let his head tilt sideways against Blair's and rest.

The drift was fast and easy, like riding the swell of an incoming wave, feeling it lift him up smoothly and set him down again in its rolling passage. Jim caught his breath with a gasp, eyes snapping open, his grip on Blair's hand tightening. There was some reason he couldn't let go and fall asleep right at the moment, but he couldn't remember what it was.

"Shh, it's OK," Blair murmured, the reassurance as automatic as the way he leaned against Jim a little harder, just enough to bring himself to the forefront of Jim's attention. His hand moved against Jim's, returning the pressure, then letting go, and Jim felt the confusion retreat, Blair's sense of purpose giving him a memory of the goal. "Why don't I get you bandaged up now," Blair suggested, trying for a brightly optimistic tone that his exhaustion turned a bit flat and desperate. "Then we can get some sleep, and I bet even that breakfast will look good after we've rested."

Jim nodded, reality disconnecting again as Blair shifted away from his side and scooted off the edge of the bed. His eyes drifted half shut, quiet darkness beckoning to the heavy, settling feeling of sleep stealing the last bits of energy from his whole body. The soft touch on his hand startled him, and he could see his reaction had startled Blair in turn, though only enough to make his heart jump a little, pulse pounding briefly faster in the shadowed hollow of his throat.

"This won't take long." Blair's promise was as soft as his caress, sliding around Jim's palm and lifting his hand from the surface of the comforter, his skin so much warmer and more soothing than the rough fabric. There was another promise in his touch, the knowledge there would be pain for Jim, but it would be as little as possible, and only what was unavoidable in the furtherance of his own good. Beyond that, there would be all the strength and patience and compassion one heart's love could give. It was already there in Blair's eyes and in his hands as he carefully knelt by the side of the bed and, still holding Jim's hand like it was fragile porcelain, unscrewed the cap off the plastic tube of Neosporin with his teeth.

With the cap gripped in his teeth and the tube in his hand, Blair looked down at Jim's wrist and said, "I wee awomrr wha." Blair's expression was a combination of frustration and bewilderment and helplessness that would have made Jim laugh, if he hadn't been so grateful instead for something he could fix.

He lifted his right hand out of Blair's careful support, and set it back down on the unforgiving bedcovers. Feeling like he was moving for the first time in years, he pushed down with his left hand as well, trying to straighten his arms and lever himself up away from the pillows he was leaning back against. When the dull, hot weakness shot through his left forearm, he nearly cried aloud as much with surprise as with pain. His elbow buckled and he tipped sideways, curling forward and then catching himself with a gasped curse. It was a small victory indeed to remind himself that at least he was not falling asleep any more.

"Jim, please." Blair had stood up fast, reaching to help him. His voice was low and soft, but it had the unmistakable strained quality it always took on when he was frightened. The clear speech meant that little whistling sound followed by the cough of impact had to have been the cap to the Neosporin dropping from his mouth, and it was now lost in the ugly green shag rug. Jim was pretty sure that wasn't what scared Blair.

"I'm OK," he enunciated carefully, and though it was technically a lie, he knew Blair heard what had really been meant.

The sound of Blair's breathing eased, losing the sibilant indicators of stress, and his touch was nothing more than a brief caress, his fingertips trailing lightly over Jim's forearm to give punctuation to his words. "Take your time, Jim, I'm right here."

Almost close enough to hold. Jim let that concept settle where it had formed without thought, and pushed himself back upright, dragging his legs knee-first out from under the covers. In a moment Blair understood his intent and reached to pull the sheets out of Jim's way, disentangling them from where they were pulled taut enough to impede his movement. As he struggled to get his feet over the edge of the mattress, Jim kept his eyes fixed on Blair's hands. Coaxing him forward with unconscious gestures, promising gentleness and surcease of pain, carrying the memories of all the kindnesses it had taken to bring him back from his own self-destruction. He needed their kindness again, and for their soft, healing touch he could muddle through something as impossibly difficult as sitting up on his own.

"Jim," Blair breathed, and then didn't say the rest. _You're so strong,_ he was thinking. _I've never known anyone in my life as strong as you._ He didn't say it because he knew how Jim would have flinched away from the words. He had seen it over and over again in the despair and grief in Jim's eyes, in Jim's heartbreaking belief that somehow he was the one who had failed tonight. But though he would not hear the words, he allowed Blair to hold him; he accepted Blair's touch. He sought it, clung to that contact, and trembled, bereft, when it was gone. So Blair would tell Jim the truth over and over again in the way he touched his friend.

He laid one hand carefully on Jim's shoulder and looked down at him. He was swaying a little, but sitting up on the side of the bed by himself, and Blair found that he was awed all over again by Jim's courage and will. Where had he found the strength? How had Blair dared to ask it of him?

Jim was watching him closely, all his attention, everything he was focused on Blair. Blair smiled at him and touched the back of his hand, the one still holding the tube of Neosporin, to Jim's cheek. "Thanks for sitting up," he told Jim quietly, meaning so much more. "I think it'll be easier this way."

The soft sound of Blair's voice almost covered the other noises from outside, but as he finished speaking, the approaching footsteps took all Jim's attention. Heading toward them purposefully, and then slowing as they reached the door. He could map the movements as if he was watching from outside, and knew beyond a doubt that person's goal was the room they were in. For a moment anguished panic swept through him. There was no place he could hide Blair, no way to get him out of the line of fire. Before that fear had even crystallized, the memory of having his gun taken away from him and the reality of his current state followed, a tsunami of helplessness leaving him swamped with no course of action.

"Jim," Blair said urgently. "What's wrong? Take it easy. There's nothing there."

Blair was wrong, there was something outside. It was inside himself that there was nothing. With a feral need to do whatever he could, Jim leaned forward, his feet resting on the floor, the wiry spikes of the carpet ignored in the drive to do what he had to do, what his instincts demanded he attempt.

 

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	62. Chapter 62

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Seeping into their combined soul and darkening Blair's eyes_

"Jim, whatever you're trying to do... " Blair raised his hand from Jim's shoulder to his face, palm over the lined brow, trying to draw Jim's attention back from the chaos of the outside world. "Just stop it. I mean it, **please.** " Jim's whole body quivered with tension, and then Blair heard it too, the footsteps approaching and pausing right outside their room. Infected by Jim's fear, he felt a pang of terror and rage as stark as the feelings reflected in Jim's wild eyes. _No. No, not after so much._ Not after everything they had survived together.

From outside, a muttered voice declared sullenly, "Here, asshole, all yours." There was a ruffling slide of heavy, flexible weight, and the dull thump as something shapeless and giving landed against the door. The impact made the hollow-cored door vibrate like a struck gong, the lock mechanism rattling with a buzzing, metallic whine that made the cores of Jim's back teeth ache. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and he squinted with the effort not to cringe downward in a futile effort to get away from the noise.

_I'll kill that kid,_ Blair thought in a rage, when he realized the noise had to be the requested towels and blankets. _I'll hunt him down and feed him to the seagulls._ "Jim," he said, and tried to be sure none of his anger was in his voice. "It's all right." He laid his hand on the side of Jim's face, hopelessly trying to shield him from the sound that had already hurt him. "It's just that kid from the front desk. You're safe. We both are."

The sound of Blair's voice overlaid the other noises, seeming to match the tones with opposite ones until it negated the painful sound and all that was left were the words, suspended in silence. Jim blinked, his brow creasing as he reconsidered the words as having meaning as well as power. _Safe?_ Not yet, not quite, not until they were home again. So far to go before they reached that haven. He dredged up a shadow of a smile and held out his left arm so Blair could reach the wrist easily, but he kept his eyes fixed on Blair's face, not the marks on his own skin.

Blair's throat felt tight, and the last of his anger drained away, replaced by the aching tenderness that made every gesture feel too clumsy and abrupt, every word sound too loud and harsh as it left his mouth. He looked down at the tube of Neosporin in his hand, and thought carefully about what he was going to do next, because he didn't want to make even the smallest mistake. The goo that peeked out the end of the little plastic nozzle was thick, translucent, and he knew that exerting enough pressure to smear the gelid stuff over Jim's raw spots would hurt.

Watching his face, Jim saw the determination of a serious thought process, and almost managed a real smile. "It's just goop, Sandburg, you smear it on the owies," he said instead, and the way Blair smiled back at him made the room seem brighter.

"That what they teach medics these days?" Blair said softly, still smiling, one eyebrow quirked upward. "How hard can it be, right?" But instead of starting the process, he turned away and reached for the second cup of coffee sitting in the cardboard tray still on the bed behind him. "Hah, this stuff has a use after all," he announced, prying the lid off the untouched cup. Carefully he immersed the tube in the coffee, letting it spill over the edges of the cup and soak into the carrier, but being very sure not to get the top quarter of the tube below the surface of the liquid.

"I'm afraid to ask what you plan to do with the leftover sausage." Jim let his arm drop, the trembling in it as he held it out too noticeable for them both to ignore.

"Well, you can't eat the stuff, might as well get **some** use out of it," Blair growled in mock defensiveness, still holding the tube steady in its heat bath. "Could have been worse, they might have been serving that corned beef hash out of a can that always smells like dog food."

Jim's stomach turned at the thought, and now that his thoughts had turned consciously toward it, he was too aware the room was taking on the unpleasantly ripe odor of cooling, grease-soaked sausage patties. "Could you do me a favor?" he asked as calmly as he could, hoping his voice didn't sound too strangled by the rising queasiness.

It didn't matter, Blair still turned around so fast the coffee in the cup under his hand sloshed to the side, spilling enough to stain the bedspread under the cup carrier. "What is it?" he asked anxiously. The already forgotten tube of Neosporin hung from his fingers, dripping more stale coffee into the rug, where it released surprisingly foul odors. Somebody had brought a dog into the room not too long ago, and no amount of vacuuming was ever going to take that smell out. It didn't even seem like anyone had tried very hard.

Jim stared at Blair's face, trying to concentrate on the color of his eyes, the warmth and scent of him, the images of all the sweet kindnesses given; anything at all to keep from thinking about the smells curling up from the carpet like miasma from a swamp, and the horrifying temptation to identify the breed of dog. Drawing a careful, slow breath through his mouth, he fought to make his request calm and casual. "Please take the food outside," he asked, and despite the effort, he knew he hadn't been able to keep the distress from his voice. It filled the air around them like the smells from the rug, seeping into their combined soul and darkening Blair's eyes.

Like he had done already, a hundred times or more, Blair took that despair into himself, and then burned it away with the pure force of his spirit. Jim watched, saw it happen in the expressive planes of Blair's face, and was as awed as he had been every time before. He couldn't help loving that indomitable strength, and closed his eyes, tilting his face up as he would have looked into the yellow spring sun, feeling the heat over his closed eyelids, pouring down on him, burning away all his own despair as well.

Pure clean heat touched his forehead, and drew the last bit of unhappiness from him. He opened his eyes to see Blair's hand drawing away slowly, before he turned back to the other bed, carefully set the Neosporin down in a dry spot, and began to gather up the remains of breakfast. "Sure, no problem," Blair said, his voice quietly happy, filled with the important things he had seen in Jim's face instead of regret or shame. "I'm sorry I hadn't noticed it, but right now I don't think I'd notice a wet sheepdog if it was standing on my foot."

With his uncombed hair trailing in his face as he bent down, Blair looked a bit like a wet sheepdog, and when he straightened back up, blinking through the uncontrollable tangled halo, the resemblance was more pronounced. His hands full of the rejected breakfast, he couldn't push the mess out of his eyes, so he tried tossing his head, but the hair flopped back in front of his eyes again. Even though he could not have had more than a glimpse of Jim's face, he seemed to know what look was aimed at him all the same. "What?" he demanded indignantly, as if he weren't perfectly aware what a ridiculous picture he presented, or how the gentleness of his voice belied the posture.

"Be careful," was all Jim said out loud, but he knew his eyes were smiling again by the way Blair grinned at him. Despite how bad the breakfast had begun to smell, and the trouble he'd had facing most of the offerings, what little he had eaten seemed to have done him a great deal of good after all. The other times Blair had left him to reach the door on his necessary errands, Jim had felt the separation as a keenly sharp and steadily increasing pain. Even when Blair was with him, the world broke through too harshly at times, and he expected it would again. Especially when he was left to sit hunched over on the edge of the bed, waiting for Blair to dump the remains of the food.

Somehow it wasn't so difficult this time. Jim watched Blair stride purposefully to the door, pull it open, and deposit the two grease-stained paper bags on the concrete walk outside. He expected to be able to hear the contents shifting, slopping around loosely, and the prospect of the sound made him feel queasy again. But it wasn't as bad as he thought it would be, because instead of listening to the oily glop he'd tried to eat, he heard Blair's voice instead. Just a soft whisper, as low and careful as if he'd still been curled around Jim, speaking as much with the movement of his lips as with the air he breathed.

"Hey, good news. These are the soft, fuzzy blankets, not more of those awful bedspreads." With both arms, Blair gathered up the bundle from their doorstep, then carefully pushed the door shut with his foot. A breath of outside air reached Jim, cool and wet and smelling of exhaust and warming asphalt from the street, the ocean, the diner and its patrons, and the bitter cherry slurpee the kid who brought them the blankets had been drinking. The door swung shut, closing all those things outside, leaving the fresher smell of recently washed blankets warming against Blair's bare chest. When the door had closed and the latch engaged, Blair leaned against it with the armload of linens, and the pressure of the soft mass of them damped out the last vibrations in the hollow steel door. Only a moment passed before he turned back toward Jim, eyes anxiously checking for signs of distress even as he moved forward.

It might have been easier to dump the pile on the empty bed and stage things from there, but the imprint of their sand-covered bodies from their first collapse inside still lingered, and there was no way he was going to get sand in the clean bedding. He carried the stuff over and set it down next to Jim, pulling the first blanket from the pile, shaking it out and gently wrapping it around Jim's shoulders. "This should help a little," he said in that same quiet whisper, pulling the cover all the way around Jim without dragging the fabric on his skin, patting it close to his sides and tucking in the edges. "Do you want another?"

 

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	63. Chapter 63

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Smiled back at him with contented trust_

Jim shook his head without speaking, a little dizzy for a moment in the swirl of sensations, enough so that he had to cut short the gesture because it enhanced the feeling of losing his way. He wasn't lost, not with Blair so close, the heat of his hands dancing through the cover in brief flashes as he settled it around Jim's shoulders, like the sparkling of sunlight on moving water. Mercifully the blanket was clean, smelling more of industrial detergent than anything else, and Jim deliberately refused to seek for anything else. It wasn't quite as soft and fuzzy as it could have been, being only a plain cotton waffle weave sort of thing, worn a little thin with use. The pattern of small repeating squares felt odd on his back, the clear-cut grid contrasting with scattered stripes of coolness caught in the fabric where the outsides of the folds had taken on the morning's chill while it rested at their doorstep. While he puzzled them out, mentally mapping the way the blanket had been folded, Blair sorted out the collection of towels, bundled them into a separate pile, and glanced over toward the rear end of the room.

Blair was tempted briefly to just toss the load in that general direction rather than leave Jim's side, but a glance at their tangled jeans, still sitting soggy and sand-encrusted on the floor, dissuaded him. No point in getting new towels if the first thing he did was let them get full of sand. It wasn't hard to imagine how that would feel, the terrycloth loops already coarse enough without adding the grainy sharp edges of beach sand. He carried the pile over to the little counter by the sink and made sure they were sitting safely on it.

Returning to the space between the beds, he picked up the tube of Neosporin and squeezed it just enough to see that the gelid goo had softened considerably from its bath in the coffee, and hadn't lost too much elasticity since it was removed. It wasn't quite warm enough to become liquid but it would spread easily over Jim's raw flesh, and should even slide easily through the dark hair that hadn't been entirely abraded off his wrists.

"This is better," Blair said to reassure both himself and his patient. "I think it's going to work." He turned his head and smiled at Jim, and the blue eyes that had been slightly distant and dreamy smiled back at him with contented trust. For what felt like the first time all night, Blair had the leisure to plan his next action in detail, so he set the tube back down and picked up the gauze, pulling the box apart to get the soft roll out. As tired as they both were, it would make a lot more sense if he treated each area completely before moving on to the next injury.

Experimentally he pulled a few inches from the roll, then tried to tear it. Flimsy as the threads looked, they refused to break, stretching down into a narrow, tough rope instead of giving way. Blair felt a brief flash of the sick helplessness that had plagued him so often, returned again to sit heavily in his stomach and make him regret that bite of sausage. He couldn't wrap this stuff around Jim's wounds and then yank on the bandage until it gave up. He had to cut it, and his pocket knife was as lost as Jim's pride.

_I should have put scissors on the list,_ he thought bleakly, staring down at the needed but maddeningly useless bandage roll in his hand. Before the urge to fling it across the room became too strong, he dropped it and reached for the tape instead. Jim made an inquiring sound behind him, and he knew he had given himself away again. It didn't matter whether it was his heartbeat or his breathing or even his very thoughts, Jim was attuned to them all.

"Minor setback," he whispered, hoping the softer tone of his voice wouldn't carry his dismay. The cover came off the roll easily, and he pulled a little piece of the white, antiseptic-smelling tape out from it, then tried to tear it. The serrated edge allowed it to rip where he wanted, and the ridiculously small victory of ending up with a couple inches of tape in one hand and the roll in the other gave him the ability to smile at Jim again with renewed confidence. "I know, any day now, right?"

Jim blinked slowly, his eyelids surprisingly heavy, and tried to concentrate on what Blair was doing. The blanket around him was warming gradually, the pattern of cooler swatches fading away. It blocked the bulk of the random air movements in the room, the little drafts that had run up and down his skin before and made him feel so much more naked to the whole world. Insulating him, like Blair's voice and touch. He missed Blair's touch, and focused more closely on him, watching as he picked up the roll of gauze and turned it in his hands, frowning at it. "Any day now?" he prompted with hoarse hopefulness.

Blair's lips tightened in a brief frustrated grimace, and he held the roll up so Jim could see it. "I can't figure out how to cut this stuff," he said plaintively.

For a moment Jim stared at it in puzzled silence, then his chest heaved and he started to laugh. His throat was still raw and sore at the use, but it felt so good to really laugh at something that even as he did, he realized he hadn't known for sure if he would ever be able to again.

"It's not funny, man," Blair protested, shaking the rolled gauze primly at Jim, but he couldn't maintain the serious front. His bright grin surfaced first and then he laughed too, his free hand dropping to rest on Jim's shoulder, connecting them all the closer in their shared appreciation of the ridiculous. Under his touch, through the thin blanket, he could feel more of the tension leaving Jim's muscles. Blair didn't care whether the impetus was the slight warmth of the cover, or the little bit of dignity it gave Jim, or just the release of laughing at the idea that gangs of thugs and explosions and near-death experiences were just a prelude to being balked by some generic brand cotton gauze. Just as long as they kept making progress back toward being normal again. To his surprise, he felt a sudden pang of regret at the prospect getting back to nothing more than the way he and Jim had been before. He turned his head away for a moment, hoping Jim could not see the sick self-disgust in his eyes. What was the matter with him anyway?

The hand on his shoulder trembled subliminally, and the joke was over. Jim drew a careful breath, the air cold and dry over his throat, and forced a calm he didn't feel in his heart. "How about your knife?" he asked, focusing on the immediate problem.

Strange emotions moved through Blair's eyes, and Jim felt a shiver rippling down his spine without understanding why. A breath later, Blair said gently, "I lost it." There was something more in his voice than the loss of a sentimental memento, and Jim couldn't help following it. He traced the distant sound of pain and despair to the small glitter of light as hope was struck from his hand, hissing as it flew through the rain, bounced among the dark, cold rocks and came to rest in the sand. Where it still lay, so far behind them.

Jim closed his eyes, drawing the blanket down tighter against himself, not caring how the raised edges of the weave dragged at the scratches on his back, until the thin fabric felt as weighty as the heavy, solid press of stone behind him. But the touch on his head was far gentler than the rain had been, and Blair's voice was warm, pushing away the night and the rocks with the admonition, "Don't remember that." His hand moved, open palm stroking over Jim's head and then down the side of his face, shaking a little with tiredness but still so very careful to glide lightly over skin too sensitive to bear more than the weight of a tear. "Remember what I got in return."

Eyes still closed, Jim turned his head toward Blair's touch and nodded very slightly. Forcing the words through his throat, Jim asked hoarsely, "Did you bring your razor, or a disposable?" Blair's hand trembled more, pressing for a second longer against Jim's face in silent thanks before dropping away.

Puzzled and bemused, he answered, "I didn't have time to go shopping, I grabbed my regular one. Why?"

"Take it apart," Jim rasped. "Use the blade." He opened his eyes and looked hopefully into Blair's face, and was rewarded with the brilliant smile he needed so badly.

"You're a genius, man. I'm on it." Blair's eyes caressed Jim's face with such care he had the fleeting sense of the touch of sunlight again, before Blair raised his head, gauged the distance to his shaving kit on the sink, and then strode purposefully toward it. Rather than dig through it and extend the time he was away from Jim's side, he simply picked it up and carried it back, adding its dumped contents to the small pile of stuff on the other bed. His hands lost their tired tremor, moving with easy surety as he picked up the razor, deftly unscrewed the handle with a couple quick turns, and extracted the blade from inside the head.

"OK, the doctor is in," he announced, setting the gauze and razor blade on the nightstand by the phone, the tube of Neosporin in his hand as he sat down at Jim's right side. Obediently, Jim held his right arm up again, his wrist at a comfortable height for Blair to work on. With exquisite care, Blair squeezed a line of the goo across the top of Jim's wrist, along the centerline of the abrasion, keeping the tube far enough from the flesh that the sharp plastic edge of the opening wouldn't drag. Still warm, it spread easily under a feather-light touch of his forefinger. A slight crease formed between Blair's brows as he concentrated intently on the simple task.

Jim would have laughed at so much comical attention to the chore, but the spreading gel brought such relief he was faint with a breathless sense of something that was almost pleasure. The hot, dry ache of the air over his wounds had been such a constant background, and even that such a relief after the acid burning of salt and water had gone, that he had let them become a part of what he expected to feel. As Blair spread the ointment over the raw edges of his torn skin, then gently turned Jim's hand over and began on the inside of his wrist, Jim swayed, little blue and black spots encroaching from the corners of his vision.

"Jim." Blair's voice shook and he released Jim's hand to put his arm around Jim's back, steadying and supporting him. He gripped Jim's shoulder gently but very firmly. "Jim, is this hurting you? Do you need to lie down?" Jim relaxed against the warmth of Blair's side, not fighting his weariness, accepting the disorientation from the unexpected and desperately welcome surcease of pain. He bowed his head, eyes half closing as he waited for the moment of vertigo to pass, groping for Blair's other hand with his own and then holding on hard, so Blair would know he was all right.

"Is this hurting you? " Blair asked in a soft, worried voice. "Tell me if it is, and we'll just stop. I don't think I can stand to hurt you anymore."

 

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	64. Chapter 64

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Without anyone losing a finger_

Jim closed his eyes and raised his head slowly, not opening them again until he was looking into Blair's face. His friend's eyes were dark in the dim room, pupils so wide only a narrow strip of blue was left, his throat and chin shadowed with stubble. He was biting his lower lip as he watched Jim, waiting for whatever sign Jim could give him. Jim shook his head infinitesimally. He had no words for how right Blair's touch felt, how astonishingly good it felt for some of the pain to lessen.

"Jim?" Blair asked, confused. It was too easy to be sure what he was doing must be hurting, as almost everything he had done for Jim had hurt during the endless night. For all the progress they had made together, he still remembered every flinch and broken breath he had caused in his efforts to help. "Are you with me, man?"

Jim lifted his hand to Blair, palm up like an offering or a gift. "It's good," Jim said in a low voice. He wanted to smile, but his responses were disconnected and slow, and he wasn't sure if he managed one or not before he had to quit trying. "It feels good," he said. "Don't stop now."

Blair looked at him, then down at Jim's proffered hand. The soft flesh on the inside of his wrist was stippled by shallow abrasions. Feathery wisps of flayed skin were pale above bruises which were ruddy and dark, just beginning to shade to blue. Blair swallowed hard, feeling tears rise at nothing more than the unconscious grace in the angle of Jim's wrist.

They had tried to take that from Jim, hurting him until the strong and poised man Blair had always known was clumsy with anguish. They had battered their way through that noble, unconscious beauty, seeking to expose whatever weakness might lie underneath, but in the end, the marks they had left on Jim's body were signs of nothing but their own cowardly rage. Jim had endured everything, and would be strong once more. The men who had hurt him were gone beyond any ability Blair had to catch them and exact vengeance, but still, somehow, that wasn't good enough. Not when he was looking at the marks left on Jim's flesh and feeling the subliminal tremor in his over-stressed muscles.

Blair wrapped his free hand gently around Jim's fingers to steady Jim 's hand and wrist, and carefully squeezed a gelid ribbon of antiseptic across the inside of Jim's wrist. He released Jim's fingers and used his own forefinger and middle finger to once again spread the antiseptic across the band of scoured flesh. Oil gleamed at the point of Jim's wrist, and Jim's long fingers were curled slightly toward his palm, patiently holding still for Blair.

Blair took a deep breath and looked into Jim's heavy lidded eyes. They were patient and dark, and he was still leaning heavily against Blair, his side warm through the blanket. One side of his mouth twitched up into a near-smile as Blair watched. "Easy, Sandburg," he whispered. "It can't be that bad."

"What can't be?" Blair asked, wondering what kind of expression he had allowed to cross his face during an unguarded moment. He laid the plastic tube down carefully on the bed beside him, and picked up the roll of gauze.

"You looked ready to take someone apart," Jim told him in a soft voice. He knew, in a distant way, what Blair had to have been thinking, and Jim supposed he must have felt the same way at some time or another. At the moment he wasn't sure if he had felt it in the past and gone too far beyond it to remember, or if he still had to reach that milestone in the future. Either way, it didn't seem to matter much compared to the more immediate concerns they were facing.

Blair shook his head. "Sorry," he said, matching his own tone to Jim's. "I was just thinking about some stuff for a minute." He held up the gauze. "This is the plan. I'm going to wrap this real loose around your wrist here. I think it'll help protect it, keep the Neosporin on longer too, but if you think it would hurt you, we won't do it. What do you think?"

Jim closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at Blair again. "Need an extra hand with the gauze?" he asked quietly.

Blair felt the smile that stretched across his own face. "Yeah, I'm sure I will, actually." He picked up the roll and spun out a short length. "You tell me if anything hurts, all right?"

Jim closed his eyes for a moment again, a simpler gesture than a nod, his expression pared down to the bare essentials of communication. "All right."

"Here we go," Blair said. He turned Jim's hand palm down, and gently laid a strip of gauze over the back of Jim's wrist. Unrolling more as he went, he carefully wound it around Jim's arm, catching the loose end of the bandage so it would lie flat above the bruised and flayed skin. "OK?" he asked again, a little nervously as he made a second pass, being exquisitely careful not to pull or put any pressure on the bandage. The speckled, torn flesh disappeared one band at a time under the carefully placed layers of cool white gauze. Blair wouldn't allow himself to pretend hiding the hurt could take it away, but he was heartened all the same by the sense he was doing something that helped Jim, please god, that he was doing something right.

When the first mark of Jim's bondage had been completely enwrapped, Jim raised his other hand before Blair had to ask, and took the roll of gauze. "Don't cut yourself," he whispered to Blair. He didn't waste the energy for a smile, but Blair could see a glimmer of interest and light in those hooded eyes.

"No way," Blair agreed. "I'm being careful." He laid his palm over the back of Jim's hand, feeling the faint tremors, and then reached over for the razorblade. One finger on top of the blade, he scooted it to the end of the bedside table, and let it fall into his other hand. "All set now?" he asked, mostly rhetorically. He took a careful grip on the gauze near Jim's own hold, and cautiously pulled the bandage taut between their hands. "Now the best case scenario here is that we do this without anyone losing a finger," he told Jim, punctuating the comment with a grin. Jim only cocked his head a little, but one eyebrow rose a fraction.

"Kidding," Blair said. "Kidding. I've got everything under control." It was the wrong thing to say, of course, because it reminded Blair suddenly and forcibly of just how little control he had over anything, least of all his own emotions. He waited until he had blinked away the tears and his hand had stopped shaking, and then brought the blade down across the bandage. He could feel the fibers parting, and he kept sawing with a slow back and forth movement until he'd cut through the width of the bandage. "That was a good idea," he told Jim, once more laying the blade aside on the table. "Beats gnawing through it with my teeth anyway."

Jim's eyes lit again, as though picturing the scene, and Blair grinned back as he picked up the roll of surgical tape. "It doesn't feel too tight, does it?" he asked, as he tore off a short strip. Jim shook his head carefully. "Great. Then we're still in business here." Blair taped down the loose end of the gauze, placing the tape as cautiously and gently as he had the gauze. He tore off a second strip and placed it on the loose end as well, securing both corners. "There. That should hold it. I'd like to get a bandage on this place here above your elbow too, if you don't think it would be too uncomfortable for you. Want to try it?"

Jim looked down at his bandaged wrist for a moment before looking back at Blair, and Blair wondered if they were thinking the same thing. For a wild moment he wished it weren't so, as if they could do anything else, as in tune with each other as they had become. Blair had had the sudden, impossible idea that the neat white gauze wrapped around Jim's graceful wrist made him look like a romantic suicide attempt from the afternoon soaps. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Jim so, before he remembered, sick with horror, that Jim had, after all, tried to drown himself in the surf.

He blinked, feeling the perennial burn of tears just below the surface. God, he was so tired he was on the verge of completely losing it, that had to be the explanation. And if he were tired, it was a thousand times worse for Jim. Maybe it would be better to leave all the rest of the first aid for later, and try first to get some sleep before he did or said something unforgivable. "We could take a break now if you want," he said abruptly. "I know you must be pretty beat. I sure am. We could finish after we sleep for a little while."

Jim raised his eyes and looked at Blair. He was silent for a moment more, weighing the relief from pain against the drag of exhaustion. Evaluating Blair's desire to stop was more difficult because he had to gauge how much of it was motivated by concern for Jim rather than personal need. The effort to puzzle it out logically was too much, and he yielded the decision to his confidence in Blair, unleavened by any other factor. "No," he said at last in his hoarse voice. "Finish now."

Blair reached for Jim's hand, wrapped his fingers around Jim's for an instant and held on, gently but firmly, then let go so he could grasp Jim's forearm above the bandages. "Want you to put your hand on my shoulder here, OK?" he directed, half-turning toward Jim, and lifting Jim's arm. Jim nodded in understanding, and laid his hand on Blair's shoulder, so Blair could reach all the way around the band of scoured flesh below Jim's biceps. The blanket slipped off Jim's shoulders, and Jim began to tremble once more.

"We'll do this as fast as we can," Blair promised. He tugged the blanket around one-handed to drape it over Jim's lap before he reached once more for the tube of ointment. Jim's hand was warm on his shoulder, warmer still when he squeezed gently, as though in reassurance, as Blair drew a line of ointment thickly around the worst of the banded contusions above Jim's elbow. He laid the tube aside, feeling like he was engaged in a clumsy sort of one-handed juggling act, and carefully began to spread the gel across the rope burns. He laid his other hand gently on the outside of Jim's upper arm, just to share the comfort of touch.

The wounds were deeper than they had been on his wrist, ragged where the skin had been cruelly stripped as Jim struggled against his captivity. Blair felt Jim's fingers tightening on his shoulder as he tried to smooth the antiseptic over the welted, broken places on the tender underside of Jim's arm. "I know," Blair whispered, tilting his head until his temple touched Jim's forearm. "Just hang in here with me for a little bit longer."

"Always," Jim murmured, softer than a breath. His eyes were closed, and after tightening for a moment, his hand on Blair's shoulder relaxed once more. His palm was warm and soft over the point of Blair's shoulder, his fingers lying gently curled against his back. It seemed to Blair, then, that Jim's great gentleness moved through him, steadying his own heart and hand.

 

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	65. Chapter 65

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You're not going to believe this, man, but I haven't got anything to say_

His touch became ever gentler and more sure, and he could feel the response in Jim's body in return. He had flinched at the first touch of Blair's fingers, an exhausted, weak shiver, but he did not tremble any more. His breaths were calm and deep and slow, his eyes closed peacefully, as though he might drift off to sleep at any moment. _Soon,_ Blair thought, his heart full, fingers moving with ever lighter and more gentle care. _Soon, Jim, I promise._

Blair brought his other hand down and carefully laid it upon Jim's forearm. The fine dark hairs were soft and sleek under Blair's palm, and he waited a moment more before lifting his hand away and reaching again for the gauze. Jim's eyes blinked open, startlingly blue and bright. "Can you bend your arm for this part?" Blair asked. "I'm afraid otherwise it'll get wrapped too tight, you know?"

Patiently, indicating his understanding with a faint nod, Jim let his hand fall from Blair's shoulder, and he bent his elbow, fingers curled into a loose fist. To Blair's sorrow, the movement seemed to hurt Jim. He didn't speak or even wince, but the fine lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes were suddenly drawn tighter.

"I know," Blair said softly. "I'm sorry." He draped a strip of gauze across the curve of Jim's arm and began to wrap the raw wound. "Get this over with as fast as I can, I promise." All the same it was more difficult than bandaging Jim's wrist had been. The gauze didn't lie flat over the gently flexed muscles, and he had to go slowly, straightening the bandage as he worked. He talked to Jim the whole time, just nonsense, just to be saying something, anything.

"We've got some aspirin, remember. If you feel up to it, I'll get you a couple when we're finished here. Might help some, do you think? It's worth a shot, anyway, right?" On and on without waiting for Jim to answer as he wrapped Jim's arm, almost as far down as his elbow. Jim was not following his progress as closely anymore, and only sat, patient and still, when Blair stopped wrapping. He smiled at Jim, then gently took Jim's other hand and lifted it. "Can you hold this for a minute while I get the razor?"

Jim blinked, the expression on his face trusting but vacant, as though he didn't understand quite what Blair wanted him to do. He glanced down at his bandaged arm, and his eyes cleared. "Sorry, Chief," he whispered, taking the roll of gauze from Blair and holding the end of the bandage in place with his long fingers. "Think I was drifting there for a minute."

"It's all right." Blair cupped the back of Jim's fingers in his palm before letting go. "You're entitled."

"It doesn't hurt," Jim volunteered suddenly, just as Blair delicately edged the razor off the bed side table and once more into his hand. Blair looked at him, so startled and happy he nearly dropped the blade.

"Careful," Jim rasped, a flicker of amusement in his weary eyes.

"I am, Jim, I am," he promised, smiling back as he maneuvered the blade close to the gauze.

"It's so different," Jim went on, looking down at the bandages. His voice was a low, hoarse effort, but he sounded surprised and pleased all the same. "I didn't remember...." The way he had his left hand positioned to hold the bandage for Blair, the contrast of the other wrist's abrasions stood out, an angrier red than they had seemed before, suddenly glaring when placed so close to the bright white bandage.

"You will," Blair said softly, keeping his concentration fixed on sawing across the tail of the bandage until it parted cleanly. Jim's fingers smoothed the edge down automatically, and Blair turned back to the table to drop the blade and pick up the tape. He was trying very hard not to think of Jim being so used to pain he had forgotten what its absence could feel like, but his hands felt clumsy and cold as he fumbled for the roll and tried to pull a piece off it. "You will," he said again desperately, trying to convince himself as much as Jim, hardly aware he was pleading more than promising.

"I will," Jim said gently, his voice as sure as Blair needed it to be.

The tape unrolled reluctantly, and he carefully tore off the two short pieces he needed before setting the roll down and swiveling back toward Jim. Smoothing the tape over the end of the gauze, he pressed it down without force, conscious of the bruising the bandage covered. With the silent, easy cooperation that had always been so natural between them, Jim's hand shifted and finished sealing it down, his fingers moving as slowly and cautiously as Blair's had. When he was done, he twisted to face Blair more directly and held out his untreated wrist, palm up.

As Blair squeezed a heavy line of ointment along the center of the bruised line across Jim's wrist, Jim trembled, his breath catching in nearly a gasp before he closed his eyes and held his arm steady. The scoring was deeper on that side, the individual rope burns almost visible as separate gouges, as if telling their own stories of captivity and struggle. Blair's hand shook slightly as he feathered the gel over those marks, spreading it from side to side until it captured a few of the soft dark hairs that laid over the abraded area and plastered them down in swirling trails. The marks were so deep he had to add a little more Neosporin to cover all of the skinned area before withdrawing his touch so Jim could rotate his wrist to expose the upper side.

There was a slow clumsiness in the way he moved it, and his hand was held out stiffly, not angled in the same graceful curving drape Blair had noticed when he did the other side. The point of bone that should have shown at the outside of the joint was hidden by a spongy swelling that had drawn the skin tight across the area, like a drumhead under tension. Conscious of the weight of the ribbon of gel as he laid it over the reddened rope burns, Blair asked quietly, "Is it too late for ice to do any good on this?"

Jim nodded without opening his eyes. He didn't think he could stand the bite of ice anyway, no matter how it was wrapped before it was laid on his skin. Just the thought of it made him shiver.

Blair's soft touch paused and lifted carefully, straight up and away like a needle coming off a record. Then he let go just as carefully of his supporting hold on Jim's fingers. His movements were so deliberate and considered, slow and linear, that as Jim held still, eyes closed, and felt the movement of air and muscle and breath around himself, he was suddenly reminded of one of the sequences from a movie he had seen ages ago. Ponderous space ships moving with stately, deliberate grace to the fitting strains of a waltz. He felt like one of those ships himself, drifting free above the well of gravity, held from falling endlessly only by the thin tether of Blair's presence. For a moment the music was so clear and real he started to lean in the direction he imagined his ship self was drifting, the other ships rotating around him like the stars wheeling above the world at night.

The gentle drag of fabric over his skin woke him and he blinked his eyes open, almost surprised to see the prosaic, dim confines of the room around him instead of the deep infinity he had been surrounded by a heartbeat ago. Blair had pulled the blanket back up around his shoulders, tucking it close as though trying to trap more warmth in its folds. He looked into Jim's eyes with apology and reassurance mingled together.

"We'll be done with this part soon, and then you can sleep," he offered, resting his hands with careful lightness on Jim's upper arms, holding the blanket close as if trying deliberately to warm Jim through it. "You'll get warm all the way once you can lay down and rest, I promise."

"I know," Jim whispered, dredging up the strength to infuse his voice with the smile he could not quite manufacture with his mouth. He let his wrist drop a little, the reddened band around it shiny with wet-looking gel.

Blair immediately let go of Jim's arms and twisted at the waist, reaching for the gauze and tape again. "Sorry, Jim," he said softly, laying the tail of the bandage lightly over Jim's wrist and starting to unroll it around his arm. "The sooner we get this done, the sooner you get some real rest, I know." A yawn ambushed him as he delicately laid a second layer of gauze over the first, and he paused in his work to let it pass, turning his head to the side rather than take a hand away from his task. Then he went back to the wrapping, keeping the layers barely taut enough to hold their place, afraid to put too much pressure on the swelling area, even with such flimsy material.

When he had the second complete set of layers done, he held the roll up and Jim accepted it from his hand, the tangle of their overlapping arms a little awkward, as if they were in the midst of a complicated cats-cradle hand-off. But it didn't slow Blair's deliberate pace; he moved with a determined elegance that drew Jim's attention and grounded his tendency to drift away from the present. Watching the strands of gauze part one by one under the sawing bite of the razor blade, Jim felt himself letting go of the roll, his grip going lax and powerless as his concentration narrowed down into the white emptiness of a zone. He blinked hard and tightened his hold, the sudden pressure crushing the soft-cored roll.

Blair's movement stopped and he looking into Jim's face. "You OK?" he asked softly. "We can quit here if you want."

Jim shook his head, almost surprised at how much effort it took to make that movement. "Keep going," he rasped. It seemed very difficult to keep holding both arms up in the right ways and talk at the same time. The sense of relief that the lessening of pain in each area brought was making it harder and harder to avoid giving in to the drifting feeling that beckoned so irresistably. "Maybe talk to me?" he asked.

_You wouldn't think that would be a problem,_ Blair thought ruefully, finishing his cut through the bandage with excessive concentration. He'd used his voice all night, cajoling and entertaining and distracting Jim with the flotsam that moved through his mind. How utterly typical that when Jim requested more of it, his mind would go completely blank. But if Jim needed the sound of his voice, then even total brain death couldn't stop him. "You're not going to believe this, man, but I haven't got anything to say."

 

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	66. Chapter 66

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As though Blair had taken the pain first_

The smile in Jim's eyes brightened as he huffed his shorthand sound for a disbelieving laugh. His finger moved to pin the loose end of the bandage before it got away, while Blair set the razor blade aside and picked up the roll of white tape. The tape tore obediently into two pieces of the right length, and Blair laid them one at a time over the seam, making absolutely certain the adhesive sides touched only the gauze, not Jim's skin.

"No, I'm not kidding, it's true," Blair said. "I think I wore out something last night. I told you about everything from that seminar Goss is giving to the grocery shopping. Speaking of which, you didn't really answer me. You want to trade off Saturdays or go in the evenings after work instead, or what? Or did I say I was going to drop the course?" He set the tape back on the table, giving Jim time to smooth down the edges and press the tape on to the bandage as firmly as he wanted. Blair was even more afraid of pressing too hard on that sprained, swollen spot than he had been on the other wrist.

For a moment, Blair had to scrabble around on the confusing pattern of the comforter to find the small Neosporin tube. Its colors didn't look anything like the ones in the bedspread pattern, but it still managed to get lost in the print anyway. Leaning in closer than before, he coaxed Jim's arm upward with a light touch on the bottom of his elbow, bringing the band of abrasions out of the shadowed fold of the blanket and into the light. With the growing ease of practice, he squeezed a heavy line of gel over the center of the marks and then began to gently spread it across the whole stripe, the corners of his mouth twitching only a little. "Yeah, right, I did, I'm going to audit instead. That makes more sense anyway, it's supposed to start next week and there's no way I'm up to starting something that intensive so soon. Especially not since we agreed to go camping when we got back to Cascade."

His fingers traced the ragged signature of Jim's pain, and blurred it, softened its edges, took away the sharp clarity. Jim lifted his hand behind his head, baring the underside of his arm so Blair could get to it. He remembered Blair coming up with the idea of going far away, and how necessary it had felt at the time. The urge to leave everything behind and not stop running until all of humanity had been left far behind was still strong enough to tug at him, tempting him with memories of clear blue skies over clean grey rock and the pure scent of the forest. But there were so many other things that were important too, things for which Blair had left no time or place in his schedule for their future.

The tiny crease between Jim's brows was more transparent to Blair than the goop he was spreading on Jim's arm. It almost made Blair laugh, knowing so exactly what was going through that familiar mind. "And if you won't tell Simon where to stick it when he says you have to stay for the debriefings, I swear I will. So don't get all duty-bound or whatever when you tell him about it, because I'm not giving you an option here. We're going away like we agreed, period. You got that?" As fiercely adamant as his determination and voice were, his touch was that much more gentle and forgiving, each delicate stroke of his fingertip trying to draw the pain out and away.

"Got it," Jim murmured obediently, because if there was something that was important, it was what Blair wanted. The rest, the reports Simon would want and the briefings the FBI would insist on, the detailed timelines of his mission and everything that had happened, even the mandatory counseling sessions with the department shrink - all those things Blair didn't think were worth their time - were all the things Jim himself would refuse if Blair needed his time and attention more. In Jim's semi-floating state, the boundaries between them worn down to faint markings that didn't bar passage back and forth, he could imagine being in Blair's position. He could feel the same driving desire to make things right, even while he felt the helpless need to let Blair make everything around him go away. Giving himself into Blair's care had been easy enough because in the truest sense he had always been there, and he was only a little afraid he would never want to leave. What he found, watching without seeing as Blair began to wind the white gauze around the mark on his upper arm, was that Blair did not want him to leave either, and he understood that protective possessiveness just as completely.

"You'd better," Blair whispered, somehow sounding no less fierce. He lifted one hand from the wrapping and stretched his arm to catch Jim's fingers, gently pulling his arm down into a slightly angled bend. It made the layer he'd already done lie differently on the lower curve of Jim's biceps, so he slowly lifted the last few inches of gauze up, then laid them back down with even more care. When he had the bandage lying flat without any wrinkles, he went on with unrolling fresh gauze over it. More than half the roll was gone, but he didn't tighten up on the wrapping to save it.

The soothing, slick feel of the ointment underneath the bandage was almost jarring in comparison to the tight, dry pain that had been with him for hours. The gel quieted the burning in his nerves until they fell nearly silent, helping him regain that much more control of his world. As the thin, coarsely woven material was laid over and around his arm, Jim could feel the weight of it, the tension of the threads as they stretched and loosened, fibers slipping reluctantly into the new shape, and the warmth of Blair's hands lingering in its layers. The sensations were making a new imprint in his memory, the recollection of harsh ropes replaced by an impression of the tender grip of Blair's hands, the weight on his skin no longer imprisoning but supporting him instead. Maybe, in time, everything would be replaced. Watching the single-minded concentration with which Blair finished wrapping his arm, Jim thought it might be possible after all.

The fingers of Blair's other hand touched the back of Jim's right hand, curled gently around his palm, and lifted Jim's hand across his body, then pressed the diminished roll of gauze into his palm. "Almost done here."

While Jim bowed his head slightly, and tried not to think about how many times Blair had told him that during the night, Blair sliced through the gauze in careful strokes. Jim could feel the tug of every thread before it parted, individual strands of cotton resisting the blade with futile stubbornness. Realizing he was spiraling down into a useless morass of sensation, he opened his eyes very wide, seeking Blair's face. Blair had turned partially away, leaning away from Jim to drop the razor on the bedside table and scoop up the tape. When he sat up and found Jim's eyes upon him, he smiled, sweet and sad. His lips were chapped, the dusky shadow of incoming beard darkened his face, and his eyelids were drooping in weariness, but he lifted his free hand and brushed the back of his knuckles across Jim's face in a gentle caress. "Hey there," he said cheerfully, his voice hoarse and quiet.

He dropped his hand to tear a piece of tape, then a second, then nudged Jim's hand away from the place where he was still holding the free end of the gauze, and smoothed the tape down over the edges. "Lower your arm for me," Blair said. "Let's make sure I didn't get it too tight." Jim did as he was told, Blair's hands still gently holding and supporting his arm. "That feels all right?" Blair asked. He raised Jim's forearm in slow degrees, his other hand cradling Jim's elbow. "Not too tight?"

"It's all right," Jim said, pushing the words out. "Feels better." It was slowly dawning on him that every time Blair promised they were almost done, he was trying to convince himself more than Jim. Jim knew how long the road would be. The knowledge was written on his body, and even Blair's careful bandaging could only ease the truth, not change it.

Blair's head dropped as he let Jim go. His hands fell to his lap, holding the tape and roll of gauze in his loosely clenched fists. He was taking slow, deep breaths, as though he were saying a mantra to himself, or as if he were on the verge of falling asleep. The pause stretched out and Jim tried to stay silent and still, wanting Blair to have this moment of quiet if he needed it so badly. His body betrayed him, though, as it had so often tonight, and a sudden shiver wracked him.

Small as the movement was, Blair's head came up fast in reaction. "Jim," he said, his voice thick with incipient sleep touched by dull surprise. The supplies in his hands were gone, dropped on the bed, Jim supposed, and Blair half-turned to him, putting his hands on Jim's shoulders. His palms were warm through the blanket, shaking a little with suppressed exhaustion. "I'm sorry, Jim, I must have been drifting there for a minute. I don't know what's the matter with me." Jim was still trembling, unable to stop his shivers once they had begun, and Blair edged closer, wrapping his arms carefully around Jim's back. Twisting from the waist, he was able to embrace Jim closely, his chest pressed warmly to Jim's, his head laid carefully upon Jim's shoulder.

"I know," he was whispering, "I know, you're so cold, so tired. I keep asking you to do stuff when all you want to do is sleep." He spread his hands across Jim's back over the blanket, petting and stroking him the way he might a beloved cat. Jim smiled a little at the thought, relaxing into Blair's embrace, so grateful for the warmth and the closeness that a moan escaped as Blair held him.

Blair answered the sound, a soft, wordless cry from his heart. He held Jim close, and his hands slowly grew still on Jim's back, his forearms locked warmly across the blanket. Blair's breaths were open-mouthed and a little ragged, huffing warmly against Jim's throat. His heart beat against Jim's chest, warm as his breath.

Jim felt the heat of his wounds flaring once more from the warmth of Blair's body, but the pain was measured and dull, as though reaching him from a great distance. Or as though Blair had taken the pain first, absorbing the sharpest, most terrible intensity into himself, so Jim felt only what Blair couldn't contain alone. Jim didn't know where that idea had come from, but once he had thought it, he seemed unable to banish the notion. It reminded him of things Blair had said during the night. It reminded him of cruel truths in the things his captor had said to him, after Jim had broken and cried aloud for Blair.

 

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	67. Chapter 67

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Such a minor, fragile victory_

"Jim." Blair's voice was soft as his breath, his hands once more moving across Jim's back, touching him gently and carefully as though his warm hands truly could find Jim's pain and take it from him with nothing more than a touch. "Jim, what is it? Are the bandages hurting you? We'll take 'em off if they are."

"No," Jim said quickly, almost smiling to think of all the trouble and time it had taken to bandage his arms and wrists in the first place. Blair must have heard the amusement in his voice, because he put his hands on Jim's shoulders and eased himself away enough to look earnestly into his face. "No," Jim said again, whispering, but insistent. "It helps. I can't feel the air anymore -- it -- it was burning me." He trailed off at the expression on Blair's face. An impossible task, telling Blair about the surcease of pain without reminding him of the pain that had been there before.

Blair swallowed hard, but he didn't give into his grief. He even smiled at Jim, a light in his eyes, the corner of his mouth crooking up. "But it's better now?"

"It's better."

Blair sighed and nodded, more to himself than to Jim. "I thought it would be. I didn't know for sure. I hoped it would." He lifted one of the hands still resting on Jim's shoulders and touched the back of his fingers to Jim's face. "I'd like to wrap those places on your legs, too. I know they must be hurting you."

They did hurt, a bone deep ache as though his ankles were still lashed. With the other pains muted, he felt them burn with a new intensity. Jim shook his head dully, only half-conscious of the movement. He was so weary he didn't have the strength to keep his memories of the night pushed back to a manageable distance any longer.

Without wanting to, he remembered the way they had bound him. He couldn't have been putting up much of a fight by then, dazed as he was from the beating in the house, then the second one outside, there in the sand when he had believed they were about to shoot him. Around him had been the hot, fetid press of bodies, forcing him against the latticework under the deck, holding his limp form upright by sheer force of their numbers as the ropes were tied around his arms. He wasn't sure if he had still been resisting at all, but perhaps he had kicked out then, or tried to, because he remembered the absurdity so profound it verged on obscene, when someone knelt in front of him and pulled his shoes from his feet before the ropes were wound around his ankles.

Perhaps it had been the man with the flat brown eyes himself. Of that whole gang of thugs and brutes, he, at least, would have understood how naked that one, miniscule indignity made Jim feel.

Even before the memories cleared from his eyes, he reached for Blair, but Blair was already slipping away. After stroking Jim's face in reassurance, taking Jim's frozen silence for assent, he had slid off the bed and was kneeling before him. When he bowed his head, his hair fell across Jim's knees. With the same slow care he had used in moving, he reached down and eased his hand under the arch of Jim's left foot, then cradled Jim's bare heel in the palm of his hand. Jim flinched a little, despite Blair's gentleness, or perhaps, he thought sadly, because of it. As tender as Blair's touch was, it still drew the past to him, if only out of the contrast between what had been and the present. The motel room, Blair's dark head bowed at his knee, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, it all went away once more in sharp, cold little flashes of sensation. He felt his bare feet digging into the sand as his body flexed and strained helplessly in his bonds. Against the back of his bare heels he could feel the cold rain, and the scrape of the rough latticework boards. He saw the face of his torturer smiling at him, and he was so alone, and so afraid.

Blair's hand moved up to the back of his calf, and the present returned. The room seemed darker, as if tainted by the flashback. "I'm sorry," Blair said, raising his head and looking up at Jim ruefully. "You ticklish?"

Jim reached out, laying his hand on the side of Blair's head. Soft hair tickled his palm and nothing more than that sensation dispelled the hint of darkness around the corners of the room. Blair's expression softened into a smile as he looked up at Jim, and he tilted his head into Jim's touch. "Is that a yes or a no?"

"No," Jim whispered. "It's all right."

"OK." Blair lifted his own hand and covered Jim's for a moment. "This should just take a minute." He looked toward the bedside table. "Damn. Did you see where I dropped the Neosporin?"

It had fallen on the bed. Jim was pretty sure he remembered that much. He looked down and to his side at the crumpled bedspread, then ran his hand over it. The white bandage around his wrist seemed painfully bright, its white making the light areas on the comforter look even dingier. When he concentrated, trying to pick out the little white and yellow tube against the garish floral print, he suddenly lost the perception of depth. The peaks and valleys in the coarsely quilted spread and the play of light and dark all became part of the same flat, pattered surface. He could feel the folds and ridges under the palm of his hand, as strongly as he could feel the prickle of the nylon quilting thread, but he couldn't see them anymore, and the incongruity made him feel dizzy and slightly sick. He closed his eyes.

"Hey, it's all right," Blair said, his voice quick and low. He leaned up over Jim, his side brushing Jim's knees. "It's here on the table after all. Just didn't see it beside the lamp." Blair settled back, and when Jim cautiously opened his eyes, he saw Blair brandishing the little white tube proudly. He laid his hand on Jim's knee for a moment. "I'm right here. We're gonna get through this together."

"Haven't forgotten," Jim said, and Blair smiled at him so tenderly Jim had to reach out and run his fingers across Blair's stubbled cheek, taking in the love in his expression with touch as well as sight.

Again, Blair tipped his head into that touch, then reached up to capture Jim's hand in his own. "Soon, now," he promised, then released his hand and scooted back so he could reach Jim's legs. He squeezed a thick, fat dollop of the ointment across his fingers, and gently touched his hand to the inside of Jim's ankle. The ointment had cooled some, and felt thick and unyielding pressed to the broken fresh, heavy against the bruised bone and muscle.

Blair seemed to feel him quiver, because he breathed out a harsh sigh himself. When he spoke, though, his voice betrayed nothing but gentle patience. "I'll go slow, Jim. Tell me if it hurts, and I'll stop, I promise."

Jim nodded, but Blair's head was down, and he couldn't see him. He looked up at Jim from his awkward position, crouched at Jim's feet, and Jim nodded again.

"All right. Just so you know. Rules haven't changed." His hand swept slowly around the back of Jim's ankle, where the rope burns gave way to scratches from the wood. The ointment oozed between the careful pressure of his fingers, slipped across the springy tendon and ravaged flesh.

"Smart move, just so you know, not having any of that sausage," Blair said, determinedly talking on, his voice the only distraction he could give Jim for the moment. "I don't think there's any way that's gonna get digested. I can feel it just sitting in my gut. What was I thinking?" He squeezed more ointment onto his fingers and pressed them to the outside of Jim's ankle, spreading the gel carefully over the sharply rounded bone, tracing the marks of Jim's captivity, talking on all the same. "Hey, you know what we should do, though?" He glanced up, meeting Jim's eyes, waiting for his response.

"What's that?" Jim managed to answer. It was enough. Blair bowed his head to his work once more and talked on.

"We should swing by that meat market at the Farmer's Exchange on our way out of town. You know, for our camping trip." The rope burns and the bruises were most painful over the shin. Even Blair's feather-soft touch pulled a groan from him. "You remember, Jim?" His voice shook with emotion, rising a little, but he didn't stop his ministrations. "Remember the sausages we had the first night of that fishing trip -- god, has it been two years now?" Blair swallowed, his shoulders trembling. "The apple sage ones were so good on the grill -- that would be great the first night, wouldn't it?"

"All I remember," Jim forced himself to say, "Is you complaining there was so much fat running off into the grill we were probably going to start a grease fire that would burn the whole forest down."

Blair snorted, more a sob than laughter, and lifted over-bright eyes to Jim's. "Didn't mean they weren't good sausages." He wiped his face hastily with the back of his hand. "Can you reach the gauze? It's right there beside you on the bed."

Jim put out his hand without looking, as though, he thought, Blair's voice would be enough to guide him, and miraculously enough, felt the fibrous roll under his palm. He curled his hand around it, somehow cheered by even such a minor, fragile victory. "Got it," he whispered, and handed it down to Blair.

"Thanks," Blair said with a radiant smile. He didn't seem to notice the tear that slipped from the corner of his eye. "Running a little low. I think I've got enough to finish, though. If not--" He shrugged. "I guess I could pay our friend at the front desk another hundred to go out and buy another roll. Tell me if this feels too tight, OK?"

The sticky, slick sensation of gauze laid over ointment was becoming a familiar one and, oddly, even a comforting one. Perhaps because it was accompanied by the fluttering, quick touch of Blair's gentle fingertips above and below the wounds as he wrapped the bandages, or the sense of comfort and completion when he was done. Blair reached around behind his ankle once, then again, and again, his forearm brushing Jim's calf on every pass. It was the only touch he could afford Jim while he worked, and Jim realized how intently he was waiting for it. Perhaps Blair knew too, because after the fourth pass, he shifted, drawing a little closer to Jim so he could lean his chest and shoulder lightly against Jim's other leg.

 

* * *

 

 


	68. Chapter 68

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _We're done with room service_

"You gave that kid a hundred bucks for breakfast and a roll of gauze?" Jim rasped out.

Blair looked up at him, smiling sheepishly. "And the bottled water, and the other stuff."

"Sandburg --"

"I thought he'd give me change," Blair said a little defensively, but then it melted away, and he shook his head, the ends of his hair brushing Jim's knee. "Cleaned me out anyway. Everything else will have to go on your card."

"We're done with room service," Jim grumbled, and Blair laughed.

"Yeah, I think you're right." After another moment he rolled onto his knees away from Jim, seeming as reluctant as Jim to lose that contact. "How does it feel? Not too tight?" He kept one hand very gently laid over the bandage to hold it in place.

"It's not too tight."

"Good." Blair reached up to the bedside table, craning awkwardly, and scooted the bare razor toward the end of the table.

Jim didn't see how he expected to get it one-handed without risk to his fingers, so he said, "Sandburg, wait." He wrapped his fingers around the back of Blair's hand and lifted it away. "You catch it," he said.

Blair beamed at him, an expression all out of proportion to the simplicity of the proposed task. "Thanks." He cupped his hand under the edge of the table, and Jim touched his fingertips to the top of the razor. It was cold, and it vibrated in a way that made his back teeth ache when he scooted it across the surface of the table. He could taste metal on his tongue. It was a relief when the blade dropped off the edge of the table into Blair's hand. "Got it," Blair said cheerfully and unnecessarily, though it lightened Jim's heart to hear his voice. Blair crouched low then, his head bowed so the ends of his hair fell across Jim's foot, and managed a hold on the gauze that didn't drag against Jim's wounds when he sawed through the strip. "Probably an easier way to do this," he grumbled so softly Jim half-wondered if he even knew he was talking out loud.

Jim laid his hand on top of his head. Blair's scalp was warm, a slightly glassy feel to his clean, mostly dry, tangled hair. "I could swing around," he told Blair softly. "Would it be easier if my feet were on the bed?"

Blair became very still for an instant, then let his breath out all at once. "Nah," he said, raising his head a little, and rubbing his temple against the side of Jim's knee in reassurance. Perhaps in apology. "This is fine. Besides, I'm almost done here. Can you hand me the tape? I think it's right there on the bed next to you, too."

Jim put out his hand and found it after a moment's blind searching. Seemed to work better if he didn't even try to look at that awful bedspread. He closed his fingers around the cool plastic casing, but didn't reach out to give it to Blair yet. "What did you do with the razor?"

Blair lifted his head. "I put it back on the table." Only then did he look. "Oh man, no I didn't, did I? I must have just dropped it. Stupid, geez." He spread his hand across the carpet.

"Sandburg," Jim croaked in protest. "Do you **want** to lose a finger?"

"I'm being careful," Blair said defensively, but he lifted his hand off the carpet. "There it is." He picked up the razor with elaborate care, no doubt for Jim's benefit, and deposited it on the table again. Then he smiled at Jim. "Thanks. Stepping on that tomorrow morning would've pretty much sucked. Can I have the tape now?"

Jim stretched out his hand, hoping his own smile showed at least in his eyes. Blair chuckled and wrapped his hand around Jim's before he took the case. He tore off two short strips, commenting, "At least we've got plenty of tape," then crouched down, readjusting the last round of gauze that had slipped down while he searched for the lost razor. "And there we go."

Jim felt the weight of Blair's fingers below his calf, a quick, soft pressure as he smoothed down the tape as gently as he could. Then he sat back on his heels again, and laid one hand on Jim's knee. "How you doing, Jim?" he asked, his voice soft and as gentle as his touch.

"Better," he answered truthfully, knowing at the same time he didn't dare make a deeper internal assessment. Don't ask, don't tell, was his present relationship with his mind and body, and all parties involved preferred to leave it that way for the time being. He pulled the blanket tighter across his shoulders, the squares in the weave stretching and distorting, and he concentrated carefully on the small band of relief around the ankle Blair had just finished tending, instead of the steadily burning manacle of pain clamped around the other. When he closed his eyes, he could see it, glowing dully red, the rest of his body drifting high above, bound by that one chain to the earth far below.

Blair's hand moved on his knee, and Jim snapped his eyes open, puzzled for a moment not to see the hot iron band where it should be. He couldn't even see his ankle, not without bending forward to look around the obstacles of his own knee and Blair's elbow, and wondered why he had believed he could. It was not, he reminded himself wearily, the worst fantasy he had found himself believing in recently.

"Jim?" Blair was shifting on his haunches, reaching for the Neosporin tube again.

"I'm here," he rasped, and kept his eyes focused on the top of Blair's head, watching the flares of golden red that shifted through the tangled strands standing out in all directions. The first cool touch of the gel broke the band of heat on his ankle, and Jim's breath caught with relief. Nearly cooled to the point of being too thickened to spread easily, the ointment covered his abraded flesh like the lingering touch of Blair's gentle soul on his, leaving peace in its wake. "I'm here," he said again, but this time it was a soft sigh of acceptance, and Blair looked up at him, eyes glimmering.

"I know," Blair said, and bowed his head again over his work before his throat closed up further. Jim looked so tired and beaten to him. Somehow the advancements of bandages and a blanket only made it worse. Naked and wounded, Jim had still manifested his innate courage and strength in every line of his body, a man injured but unbeaten. Swaying on the edge of the bed, blanket clutched around his shoulders and gauze taped over his joints, he looked like a refugee from some terrible disaster, lost without home or family to return to and too traumatized by the experience to understand what had happened to him.

Concentrating on small tasks was still Blair's only hope for retaining his dwindling control. With all the care of a conservator restoring a priceless masterpiece, Blair smoothed the ointment around the sharp curves and small, soft hollows of Jim's ankle. Painting the gel over the marks of the past, covering the raw torn places where the rough hemp rope had gouged deeply, he worked his way around Jim's ankle as if it were the most important project in the world. The bruises beginning to flush over Jim's shin were so exquisitely sensitive Blair knew there was no way he could complete the job without hurting Jim in the process, but he tried with all his heart. He held his hand as steady as he could, and let only the translucent gel touch Jim's flesh, keeping his finger suspended by the smallest fraction of an inch so it only pushed the gel over and around, but did not ever rest its weight.

The reward for his care was the even pace of Jim's breath, the stillness of his body unbroken by any wince or tensing of muscle for as long as it took to work all the way around the band of abrasion. When Blair finished and straightened his arm, he found it was trembling so badly with sudden weakness that he couldn't have put the cap back on the tube even if had known where it was.

"Here." Jim leaned forward a little and reached down, fingers curled in invitation, and Blair blinked at the proffered hand for a moment before realizing he was supposed to give him the tube for safekeeping. It had been way too many hours since he had any sleep, he knew by the way his eyes prickled and stung at the simple idea of Jim wanting to help. _Not yet,_ some lingering vestige of control ordered, and so he simply reached up and dropped the half-empty tube into Jim's palm.

The roll of gauze was right where he had dropped it after finishing Jim's other ankle, though it took Blair a fuzzy-headed moment of confusion to remember and look for it on the carpet. Nearly gone, the roll was reduced to a small, squashable wad that was easy to pass around Jim's leg. Blair laid the loose end of the gauze gently across the front of Jim's bruised ankle, and winced himself at the sip of air he could hear hiss in Jim's throat. "Almost there," he whispered, unrolling the bandage without tugging on the end already laid down, then carefully beginning to wrap it around Jim's leg in generous overlaps. He let the inside of his forearm slide gently over the back of Jim's calf as he made each pass, a predictable, comforting caress no less loving for its simple necessity.

There was little of the roll left when he finished, barely a foot of additional fabric in a tiny rolled end, and he teased it out to full length with his fingers, then wrapped it one more time, and then halfway again, rather than tug on it in a pointless cut. Considering the way his vision blurred at the edges, Blair felt faintly relieved at not having to handle the bare razor blade again anyway. _Been pushing my luck as it is. Let's not invite disaster at this stage,_ he reminded himself silently, only to be surprised by Jim's huffed snort of agreement. "Did I say that out loud?" he asked, looking up in surprise.

 

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	69. Chapter 69

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Used everything up and not finished the job_

Jim's eyes slitted in amusement, then went a little wider with puzzlement. "I'm not sure," he answered slowly, but the expression on his face was wondering rather than worried. He looked directly down at Blair, his eyes seeming to catch every bit of the faint light in the room and reflect it back in clear, pale blue. "Is it important?"

"Nah," Blair said, the only syllable he could manage. He cleared his throat roughly, then finally looked away from Jim's eyes. "The tape," he mumbled, "that's important. Where'd it go?" It, too, was still lying where he had set it aside a few minutes ago, and he picked it up before Jim had a chance to answer. There was more of it left than there had been of the gauze, so he only tore off two pieces and dropped the roll. Before he could position the tape on the bandage, Jim's hand was in his line of vision again, silently requesting something.

He stared at it, seeing the scrapes on the backs of Jim's fingers, and he knew there would be bruises starting to show at the knuckles as well. There was a thin scratch across Jim's palm, and that cut on the end of his forefinger, swollen red around the edges. He didn't have any gauze left to cover it, Blair realized, looking down in dismay at the two pieces of tape stuck to his own fingers. He'd used everything up and not finished the job. Slowly, and ever more carefully because his eyes seemed to be getting weaker all the time, he touched the pieces of tape one at a time to the end of the gauze at Jim's ankle, and pressed them down with the flat of his fingers. _Done._

Except he wasn't done. Jim's hand still waited above; he could feel the wild ends of his hair brush past and over it, and he realized Jim must be waiting to put the tape away for him. Blair fumbled it up off the carpet and into Jim's palm, hardly aware of what he was doing. There was so much left he hadn't finished that he felt a creeping, numbing despair at the magnitude of his failure. Those long scratches on Jim's back, the bruises on the back of his neck and at the corner of his mouth that nothing could be done for, the larger, deeper ones on his thighs that hadn't even developed their full accusatory color yet - all of them remained unchanged. Those terrible burn marks over his chest and belly, each one born with a scream, but Blair had done nothing at all to ease all that pain, and now look, damn, there were warm saltwater drops falling to land on Jim's skin and the bandage around his ankle. It would burn its way through all those layers and make him hurt again, and that wasn't right. Not a towel in sight, no more gauze left, even the breakfast napkins thrown outside, and so he bent and pressed a loose handful of his hair to the top of Jim's foot. He could not allow Jim to hurt any more.

The soft, tangled warmth of hair picked up most of the teardrops, but not completely, leaving smeared streaks of wetness Jim could feel cooling on his skin. "Blair, no," he protested, though he didn't dare trust his failing control to pull his foot away from Blair's tender grasp. "Please," he said again helplessly as the hot gust of Blair's breath and the silken slide of hair caressed the top of his foot.

Blair didn't look up. "It's all right," he whispered in a broken, choked voice, still trying to blot his tears. "It's all right, I've got it," he insisted in the same low, hurt voice. He was crouched on the cruel green shag carpeting, bent double at Jim's feet. Jim stretched out his hand, trying to touch his bowed head. Curling down to reach him, he felt the familiar ache of muscles pressed beyond their endurance at his back and across his shoulders, and the sharp, crueler pain of the burns on his chest, flaring to life again at even this slight change in position.

"Blair," he said again, calling to him, and the pain broke his voice, made it ragged and hoarse, a stranger's rasp. He did not mean that roughness, did not mean to speak to Blair that way. Especially not now, when Blair was trying to protect the wounds he had bandaged with such care. He was so focussed on trying to make everything right one little thing at a time he wouldn't even allow his tears to lie upon Jim's flesh. Jim's voice betrayed him, though, and he wasn't able to speak Blair's name with the tenderness in his heart. He could barely manage to speak at all.

Blair's head came up at once, though he still held Jim's foot cradled in his hands. His eyes were dark, almost hidden behind the hair that hung in his face. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice trembling. "It's not all right at all. I haven't got it. I'm not finished." His head dropped further, hair swinging forward. "I'll call that kid at the front desk -- I'll have him go back."

Jim reached out for him, trying to stop the words before they could escape. Blair's usual eloquence had become stuttering and uncertain, broken by exhaustion and grief. "Blair," he said again, all he seemed to be able to manage, his voice rumbling with the effort of speech. He touched the side of Blair's face, rough with whiskers, slid his hand down to cup his chin and lift Blair's face to meet his. "Blair," he said once more, the sound of it too rough still, but the best he could give. The sight of Blair huddled on his knees, head bowed in defeat, was stirring a memory he did not think he had the strength look at. Blair's grief seemed an echo of another despair. He remembered Blair on his knees in the ocean, the burn of salt water scouring them, and the realization Blair had given up, wasn't even trying to live any longer.

It didn't make sense. Blair had found him in the water, and Blair had brought him to safety. Blair would bring him home. He had never given up. "Chief," Jim whispered, his hand on Blair's face. "No."

"Jim?" he asked, gazing up into Jim's face, not trying to hide anymore. He was swallowing hard, his mouth trembling, and he looked in this moment as lost as Jim felt.

"It's time to rest," Jim said, finding suddenly that he did, after all, have the strength to say the necessary words.

Blair took a deep breath, chest rising, head coming up further, and he met Jim's eyes steadily. "You know, man," he said, whispering in a voice as ragged as Jim's. "I think you're right." He drew his knee up, planted one hand on the bed not far from Jim, and laboriously forced himself to his feet. The mattress bent deeply under the weight of his hand, and Jim leaned helplessly toward the depression. He didn't mind.

As Blair reached his feet, he was closely curled over Jim, as though protecting him still. His flesh smelled of the shower, and of soap, and even faintly now of caraway seeds from the sausage. He reached his hand down to Jim's and gently took the surgical tape from Jim's palm. Jim had forgotten he was holding it. Blair set the roll down on the table and then let his hand rest upon Jim's shoulder as he looked down into Jim's face. His eyes were still luminous with tears it seemed he would not allow to fall. "One more thing," he said, and even smiled. "And you're not gonna like it, but if you can stand it, I think it'd be a good idea. I got some aspirin. If you could take a couple, I think it might help with the pain, at least a little." He had to break off for a moment, breathing as though he had been running. "So if I get them, do you think you could take them?"

Jim honestly didn't know. Just imagining the bitter, flat taste that would coat the back of his throat and tongue and the dry powdery harshness of it made him a little sick. Now that Blair had mentioned the aspirin, he could smell it in the room, though it was still inviolate in its little plastic bottle. But at the same time, he longed for the peace of not hurting all the time, and knew the aspirin would help. Aspirin and sleep were the only things left that could help him more than time and Blair's presence already had. Much as he only wanted more of the latter, he nodded in assent to Blair's offer, because he knew it would make them both feel better.

The smile on Blair's face was a good reward, gentle and kind, and Jim almost reached up to touch that soft sun shining down on him, but Blair was moving away before Jim could get his arm untangled from the blanket. He quit trying to free himself and sat quietly, letting the patter of Blair's words sink in without trying to separate them into coherent thoughts.

"I told him to get Bayer because it's got that coating that will make them easier for you to swallow, and that's what we got, so really it wasn't a bad deal sending him out to get us the stuff, except for breakfast and geez, not much he could have done about that, you know. I mean, yeah, he still owes me some change big time, even considering his ridiculously extortionate pricing plan for running errands, but we got the right kind of water, too, and enough of the other supplies, pretty much, so the only reason I still really want to kill him is all that banging on the door when I told him to be quiet." The shower of words trailed into silence like the passing of a light summer drizzle, and Jim looked up to find Blair standing in front of him again, hopefully holding out two white pills in the palm of one hand, the bottle of water offered in the other.

 

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	70. Chapter 70

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Feeling quite young_

There was little Jim could do but reach for the aspirin and water and swallow the pills one at a time, gulping water to force the hard, round pellets down his throat. Even with as much water as he could stomach to wash them down, he still felt as though they had lodged irretrievably halfway down his esophagus, dissolving just enough to burn and send their bile-tainted flavor back up to his mouth. He grimaced, took another swallow of water, and briefly contemplated asking Blair to bring the breakfast back in so he could dislodge the pills with another few bites of the cold, greasy eggs. Just imagining their texture made his stomach twist and Jim clenched his teeth, swallowing until his mouth was dry and the feeling of nausea passed.

Blair watched him anxiously, his adam's apple bobbing as if he were swallowing along with Jim, trying to help by somehow sharing the work. It made Jim smile a little, and though the aspirin couldn't possibly have already begun to do him any good, all the same the corner of his mouth didn't seem as sore as it had earlier. He handed the water bottle back and said, "You should take some too." The look of confusion on Blair's face was comically predictable. "Aspirin," Jim clarified patiently.

"Oh, yeah, you're probably right." Holding the water bottle in one hand, Blair turned and picked the aspirin bottle up off the second bed, then stood looking at it as if he had no idea how to get the cap off with both hands already occupied. Abruptly he laughed, a short bark of exasperated amusement, and set the water bottle on the bedside table. "It is so totally time to get some sleep," he confided to Jim as he twisted and popped the top off the aspirin container. "You'd think with all the all-nighters I've pulled, I'd be doing better at this point." He tossed the re-capped aspirin container back to the bed, lifted the water bottle again, and chased the pills down with a couple of hearty gulps.

"I hear that happens when you get old," Jim told him, still feeling the pull at the corner of his mouth as he smiled.

"Well, you would know better than me," Blair agreed complacently, setting the water back down on the table between the beds. He turned to Jim and touched his hand to the side of Jim's head, allowing his fingers to cradle the back of Jim's scalp for a moment. "Let's get this old gray head of yours on a pillow and try to get some sleep." His voice grew softer, and he tilted his head toward Jim's, his hair falling forward to partially cover his face. "You game? It's only what I've been promising you since we got here, I think. A good night's sleep." Jim could hear the smile in his voice. "Well, a good day's sleep. You know what I mean."

He released Jim and reached over to push the sheet and the stiff comforter to the foot of the bed. "Here we go. Slow and easy, man." He put one hand on Jim's shoulder, more to guide him than support him. Jim wasn't quite sure what to do, and he felt a dull rage at his helplessness, but he was too exhausted to hold on to the feeling. He couldn't have anyway, not with Blair so close to him.

"Shh, it's OK, just lie down," Blair said gently.

He was certain Blair couldn't have seen the flash of confusion and anger that had come and gone through his eyes almost before he'd even had time to register the emotions himself, but he also knew it was no longer necessary for Blair to see anything to know what was in Jim's heart. Perhaps it had always been that way. It was easy to believe, at least, that there would never be any barriers between them again. He looked up at Blair, eyes wide, not even deliberately broadcasting his helplessness, simply speaking his heart without words that only got in the way.

The overbright sparkle in Blair's eyes answered clearly, as did the way his hands drifted gently over Jim's skin, and the small inarticulate sound from his throat. No more words were tried; Blair guided Jim down to rest with only the careful touch of his hands. Never pushing or pulling at him, only that soft feathering touch that led, encouraged, and comforted. There was no difficult challenge to the task after all, nothing but an easy, slow settling into Blair's arms, until finally Jim blinked in surprise at finding himself lying down, his head on the flat, lumpy pillow instead of the smooth muscled curve of Blair's breast. The blanket that had been around his shoulders was draped over him, and the room's damp air felt cold as the cover was lifted carefully away. He closed his eyes, drifting again, feeling quite young as the cool, coarse sheet was drawn up and over him. It caught slightly on his bandages as Blair dragged it upward. As careful as he was trying to be, Blair couldn't keep the weave from moving unevenly over the serrated edges of the tape, and Jim shifted, not liking the minute, rapid stuttering motion as each thread in the fabric bounced over the obstacle. It drew him too close counting the threads in the warp of the passing sheet, and he had to look at Blair again to push away the encroaching slide toward infinity. He thought instead about the shadowed line of Blair's jaw, half-turned away as he concentrated on bringing the covers over Jim and then lofting the spare blanket over the bed as well.

As if he felt the weight of Jim's gaze, Blair smiled very gently as he leaned over and smoothed the creases out of the top blanket, pulling their heavy, ropy weight out flat and even. The expression made his eyes warmer while shadows in the lines around his mouth deepened in contrast, darker grey against the charcoaled stubble over his cheek. "Rest, Jim. You deserve it," he whispered. He finished settling the covers in place and turned, laying his palm over the side of Jim's face, the callused edge of his thumb skimming over the rise of Jim's cheekbone so faintly it tickled at the short, invisible hairs in the delicate skin. The ball of his thumb passed over Jim's closed eyelid like the ethereal brush of a butterfly wing, and Jim sighed, his whole body sinking into a loose-limbed relaxation. "That's right," Blair breathed, his voice so low Jim heard it inside his head without any sensation of it having passed through his ears.

He took a deep breath and thought he spoke in return, but although he didn't feel his lips move, Blair replied even more quietly, "I know. Me too." The warmth of Blair's hand lifted away, then the diffuse heat signature of his body moved too, its ever-present sun fading behind a cloud of distance. When he turned off the light over the bedside table, the bulb made a little popping sound and crackled to itself as the glass cooled and shrank.

 

* * *

Blair's eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the renewed dimness, and he stood still until he could clearly make out the shapes of the furniture around himself. He was exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally, and wanted nothing more than to sleep for at least a day. The problem was, once he was standing still, getting started moving again seemed impossible. As his sight adapted, he looked down at the bed, his gaze tracing the long flattened lines of Jim's body under the layers of bedcovers. Lying on his side with only his head showing, the short fuzz of his hair dark against the pillowcase, he could have been resting after any long day at work, and the sight would have made Blair quietly happy, even a little proud of his position as the trusted friend of such a sentinel. It was a conceit he sometimes allowed himself, when he was feeling particularly comfortable, even smug, with the way his life had turned out.

He didn't feel that way now. There was no self-conscious pride swelling under his breastbone, only a great hollow sense of grief, as if he had lost something so old and precious it could never be replaced. "I'm sorry," he said without breath, almost as if he didn't want Jim to hear. A vain wish, with Jim's normally exceptional senses pushed to extraordinary limits by what he'd been through. Blair's mind shied away frantically from that line of thought as instinctively as jerking back from a flame. What had been done to Jim was too much for him to think about, too horrible to dwell on when they were still so close to it.

The train of thought was inescapable all the same, and the best he could do was try to find a safely intellectual distance from which to view their situation and its consequences. Considering it in a desperately analytical way, he wasn't sure, but he thought what really scared him was the possibility Jim never would be able to recover, not all the way, not to become the way he wanted to be or the way he remembered himself. The weight of that fear pressed on his shoulders until they slumped, leaned on him until he bowed his head in defeat. His hastily constructed objectivity was crushed in a contracting vise of sorrow and regret that it seemed he had lost the strength to escape when Jim had closed his eyes. Blair clenched his hands, the fists weak and shaking, willing himself to move, and stood still, feeling as if his soul was being flattened.

That seemingly impenetrable lassitude shattered and fell away from him when Jim's breathing caught and broke unevenly. Blair was moving before he was aware of what he was doing, not needing thought to get around the bottom of the bed and reach the other side. He crawled under covers which were cold and stiff as he pulled them over his legs and chest, the thin sheets slipping awkwardly around his body as he tried to get closer to Jim without jarring or bumping into him. He couldn't bear the prospect of undoing all their work together, losing all that ground through some inadvertent blow landed in clumsy impatience. So for the first time that night, he kept a little space between them, lying on his side facing Jim's back, apart from him.

 

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	71. Chapter 71

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The spaces between gasped breaths_

Leaning on his right elbow, Blair shrugged his upper arm free of the comforter and reached for the high point of Jim's shoulder, cupping his palm around the cool flesh. Of all the things that came to mind to offer as reassurance, none were as clear or heartfelt as the touch of his hand, but even so he said softly, "Go to sleep now. I'm right here." Under his hand a deeper breath sighed through Jim's lungs, emerging in a low, rough exhalation. Blair could hear the echo of every scream in that sigh, and his hand trembled as he moved it to Jim's head and gently caressed the short brush of his hair, all that was visible over the white bar of the sheet's folded top edge.

Jim sighed again, and something seemed to settle deep within the man, some lingering tension Blair had not realized he could even sense in Jim until, with the next breath, Jim released it. Perhaps the curve of his shoulder slumped a bit more, or his head turned slightly on the pillow. Perhaps it was none of those things. Maybe Blair felt him falling asleep without seeing anything at all, because for the first time since he had found Jim in the surf, Blair knew he was alone once more. He left his hand where it lay, soft against the top of Jim's head, even his breathing shallow and careful so he would not risk disturbing Jim's descent into sleep. He could feel Jim slipping away. The brave, weary soul of the man who lay beside him on this uncomfortable mattress was finally withdrawing from the waking world and all its suffering, coccooning itself in the velvety soft darkness Blair felt beckoning to him as well at the far edges of his consciousness. He would wait, though. After all, he had already given in shamefully to sleep once before. This time he would watch and wait, guard Jim until he knew Jim was safe in the arms of a peaceful, healing sleep.

It was easier to make the promise than to keep it, even though he wasn't afraid he would fall asleep before Jim, not this time. His head was heavy on the unyielding foam pillow, and his eyes were gritty with exhaustion. He could feel everything winding down, turning more and more slowly, even his own thoughts tumbling one after another in an increasingly languid procession. All the same, he was in no danger of falling asleep. Not while the loneliness burned dull and hot in his gut. It was the last thing he had expected, and perhaps that was why it caught him so unawares. He felt the warmth of Jim's scalp under the palm of his hand, heard the slow, deepening sound of his breaths, and tried to remember what had happened to them on the beach. Images of startling beauty and strength -- what did they have to do with two broken, exhausted men shivering under the covers at a lousy motor court?

Only one broken man, Blair amended. There was nothing wrong with Blair Sandburg that a little sleep and some decent food wouldn't cure within a day. Even the bruises he could barely feel would fade, and his cut finger would heal. But Jim... what had been done to Jim was beyond imagination. Or should have been, but Blair couldn't keep himself from visualizing it anyway, and feeling a sick weakness in the pit of his stomach as he did.

He tried to shame himself into stoicism, making himself think that after his years riding along with Jim he ought to be able to shut down his emotions when he needed to. Like Jim had told him once upon a time, if he wanted to hang with cops, he had to be able to do the right thing. That was all very good and well, but he wasn't so sure he knew what the right thing was anymore. It couldn't have been the right thing to let Jim take this assignment alone, without any helpful support or hope of rescue. He was Jim's partner; he should have been there to watch over Jim's safety and ensure it was protected even when Jim himself wasn't considering it. He should have found a way to be with Jim no matter what Simon or Jim or anyone else told him his duty was, because he _knew_ what it was. The one time it really mattered, he hadn't been at Jim's side, and that wasn't the right thing at all. Was it any wonder the whole situation had gone so desperately wrong? So wrong Blair could hardly imagine anything ever being right again.

It was growing more difficult to keep the reaction isolated in his mind, insulated from his body's quick betrayal of every thought and feeling. If he was to give Jim this last, necessary gift of peace and rest, he had to accept the loneliness as well as the accumulated grief and guilt, and deal with it all on his own. With a shamed disgust at his blind selfishness, he realized that all the times he had promised himself he could break down later, he had been assuming Jim would be there to hold him in turn, give comfort back, and make everything more bearable with his gentle embrace. The unfairness of being cheated of that sympathy was the last straw, and Blair tasted the heavy saltiness of tears pressing against his sinuses, demanding release. In quiet desperation, he used the last of his strength to lift his hand from Jim's head, not letting any trembling weakness stir the short hair under his palm to give away his treacherous heart's mourning.

Jim's breathing caught briefly in protest, then steadied again. He was too exhausted to fight his way back to wakefulness even though he had clearly felt the loss of contact. Blair froze, breathing as quietly as he could through his mouth. Keeping his respiration slow and even was painful, the insistent pressure of his grief pushing at his throat with the need to sob and gasp, as unforgiving and constant in its own way as the surf. Memories of the abuse he had seen written across Jim's body were welling up faster and faster, uglier and bloodier with every iteration, filling his heart with despair and his ears with the distant sound of hoarse screams he should have been there to hear. If he had been there, he was sure he could have stopped them.

It was impossible to turn off the images. Without the distraction of tending carefully for Jim, there was nothing to stop the accumulated hours of desperation and horror from finally taking their toll. The bottom sheet was cold underneath his bare skin as he rolled onto his back and then to his left side, facing the back wall of the room, the pillow stuffed against his mouth to muffle the sound of his sobs. Hot and stinging on his face, the tears rolled from his eyes, some dripping over the bridge of his nose, others trailing down his cheek and wetting his sideburn. Cascading through his mind was an endless series of pictures: Jim beaten to his knees, tied up and hurt by anonymous men with hands that dripped redly; Jim crying out Blair's name in his agony, unanswered until he pleaded instead for the mercy of death; Jim in the surf, so far gone he only wanted to breathe his last but betrayed even in that by his body's innate strength. Jim, who loved him, looking at him with those sad, infinitely weary and knowing eyes, hurt beyond endurance but trusting Blair with his very soul, trying as hard as he could to do what was asked of him simply because Blair asked it.

It was getting harder and harder to breathe, but Blair stubbornly held the pillow close, as if it could absorb not only his tears but also his grief. He almost didn't notice the warm touch of a hand closing over his shoulder. Then the full length of Jim's body settled against his back, and Blair sucked in a deep breath, his head falling back as Jim's hand moved from his shoulder, over his chest, nudging aside the pillow and wrapping solidly around him, holding him with a firm gentleness Blair knew would never let him go, not so long as he needed it. Jim curled around him as if enfolding Blair entirely within himself, smooth skin and the rasp of gauze and tape where he shifted, until he was holding Blair so closely they even breathed together. Jim didn't say anything as his head came to rest next to Blair's, but his lips touched, and paused, so softly forgiving, on the point of Blair's shoulder.

Though he could not get any closer to Jim, Blair still pressed back, accepting the offered contact even while his eyes ran with uncontrollable tears and his chest heaved with the force of his sobs. He tilted his head up, laying his cheek against Jim's, nuzzling helplessly, blindly seeking the comfort of touch and finding it there, rough with stubble but unrelentingly returned. "I'm sorry," he choked out, though he couldn't begin to list the reasons. For waking Jim up, for not having been there when he should have, for doing everything that had hurt Jim since he had found him on the beach; so many reasons his heart had listed he could not stop his weeping for them. That it didn't matter to Jim, none of it mattered at all to the tortured man who still came out of his own pain to help Blair, somehow only made him cry all the harder.

The force of his grief shook him, and his tears came from a reserve as endless as the great dark thunderheads that drove sheets of rain from the sky. There was no end to the anguish he felt on Jim's behalf, and he wondered bleakly in the spaces between gasped breaths if there would ever be an end to his weeping for it. It didn't matter - Jim held him all the same, and would go on holding him forever, if necessary. Jim's arms would stay wrapped around him just this tightly, Jim's cheek would lay against his with the same gentle surety, Jim's heart would beat strong and certain against his back.

That knowledge, in the end, was deeper and more powerful than any grief or regret. Long minutes passed without words, only Blair's sobs loud in the dim, uncomfortable room. The certainty of Jim's embrace dulled the sharp edge of Blair's sorrow, though, and when his body had worn itself out with weeping, Jim's closeness was the haven to which his mind retreated. He dimly felt Jim's curled arm tighten protectively around him for an instant, and then he fell gently out of the grasp of grief and into that of sleep.

 

* * *

 

 


	72. Chapter 72

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Constellations of time and agony_

He was **there** , man, he had it cold. So alive it felt like flying, and yeah, maybe he'd been a little nervous walking in at first, his dissertation committee sitting around the conference table looking about as cheerful as the four horsemen of the apocalypse - five horsemen, counting Buckner - but once he'd opened his mouth, the words had come just like he'd planned, better than he could have hoped. The last decade of his life had been spent preparing for this moment, and now it was here, it was real, he was actually making it happen. He was answering their questions practically before they were asked, anticipating every objection, turning their skepticism inside out. He had the raw data, the lab results, the facts and figures -- he had _Jim,_ down to the last little toenail. The portrait couldn't have been any more complete without Jim sitting beside him.

Best of all, his committee was listening to him and their eyes were alight with interest, their heads nodding in unconscious acceptance. Every fact in the world wouldn't have mattered if he hadn't been able to make them hear him, but he had slipped past the barriers of academic detachment, the ingrained habits of a lifetime, a world view which decreed there were no wonders any more, no Sentinels. His words were as brilliant as his theories and the fire he felt had transferred itself to them; he had made them want to believe in Jim Ellison. He wished Jim could have been with him to see it, to share in the perfect moment of vindication of those years of data gathering.

Jim understood, though. Blair had explained how this would work, and Jim was waiting for him -- back home, wasn't he? Back at the loft. Probably planning to take him out for a nice dinner or something, to celebrate. Jim would beam with pride and boast about Blair's success to anyone who would listen, as if he hadn't had anything to do with it himself, until Blair would get embarrassed and have to protest. He couldn't wait to get home.

That _is_ where Jim was, wasn't it? Once Blair began to think about it, he wasn't so sure any more. They had discussed all this, they must have, and it was really starting to bug him that he couldn't remember what he had told Jim, or what Jim had said in return. This was a big deal, maybe the biggest deal of their lives together. Of course they had talked about it. Why couldn't Blair remember the conversation?

His voice faltered for the first time. Stoddard barked a question at him about some claim of his, an interpretation of certain Huichol dream art, and Blair just turned his head and looked at the man, realizing he had no idea how to answer him. No, that wasn't quite right. The answers were still there, locked up in his head, but they didn't seem to matter any more. It certainly wasn't worth the trouble of arranging a flow of words around his thoughts and putting the effort into speaking them out loud. Not when he didn't know where Jim was. Here he'd been so happily on his way toward building his academic career on Jim's shoulders, and he couldn't even remember the last time he'd seen his friend. What the hell was the matter with him anyway?

He pushed himself back from the table, shaking his head mutely to the rain of questions from his dissertation committee. Something was wrong, he could feel it. He should have known all along, but he'd been so wrapped up in himself, so pumped over the opportunity to show Buckner and Stoddard and the rest that their faith in him hadn't been misplaced, that these years riding along with a cop on the Cascade PD hadn't really been the wild goose chase they had all thought it was, that he had completely forgotten about the only man whose opinion really mattered. But it wasn't too late. He'd make it up to Jim. Surely there was still time. Jim had been so patient with him for so long. Jim would let him explain this time, too.

Then Blair heard it. Faint and so far away at first it might have been the crowd at the stadium on the other side of campus. Could have been, but he knew, as he got slowly to his feet, the blood draining from his face, that it wasn't any game. Not those cries. They celebrated something far too dark.

"What do you think you're doing?" Buckner demanded furiously. "Blair, this is your career you're throwing away. This is your whole life."

Only then did Blair remember Buckner had already thrown his own life away. It had happened more than a year ago. Blair had dropped a handful of dirt on Buckner's coffin himself, and then as he walked away afterward, Jim had slung his arm around Blair's shoulders, told Blair if it helped any, he should remember the things Buckner had done right in his life, not the wrong choices that had finally killed him.

All this time Blair had been sitting here proudly defending his dissertation to a dead man while Jim -- Jim was out there somewhere, in the midst of that angry, hungry mob. Blair staggered to the door and flung it open.

 

* * *

The tension left Blair's body slowly, and Jim felt it subsiding, the sense of exploding anguish confined within his embrace deflating as the tears slowed and sleep washed in behind them to claim Blair at last. Jim pressed his cheek to the back of Blair's head, the tickling, soft cushion of hair drawing the tears from his face, wicking them away from him the way Blair's presence had pulled so many other poisons from his system.

Blair was breathing through his mouth, a little noisily as his throat loosened, and the ghost of a smile touched Jim's lips, thinking of how loudly Blair would be likely to snore. His own sinuses weren't entirely clear, but the slightly plogged feeling was almost a relief after being so dry for so long. They were both going to snore like lumberjacks, so he supposed it was fair enough.

The smooth planes of Blair's back, lean muscle over sloping bone, were a comfort against his chest, but the gentle heat that warmed him to his soul was focused on his body through the burns on his flesh like the sun shining through hundreds of tiny magnifying glasses. Pain sparkled over his breast and he loosened his grip, letting his arm slide carefully away from Blair's chest without letting go entirely. He tipped back a little, out of contact with Blair only enough to let some cool air flow between them, but all it did was leave the burns still flaring in the cold as if they were scattered coals glowing fitfully in a bed of ashes. Each point held its moment and memory of creation within like the molten core of a star, so sharp and clearly distinct from the others, yet tied together in constellations of time and agony.

Jim squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think of something else. The stars were distant and beautiful and free of pain, so far above he could sense the eons of time it had taken for their light to reach him. He remembered the stars, but it seemed like it had been years since he had seen them. Blair was right, they needed to go camping soon. He sighed, low and quietly, and cast loose from the anchor holding him to earth, aiming for the stars. The infinite darkness between them caught him in its soft folds and carried him into sleep, back to the beginning of time.

 

* * *

Jim was on his way home, and he was happy. It had been a long day and the weariness was a weight in his limbs, but his heart was buoyant with anticipation of a quiet evening. Maybe a book, maybe a game on TV, it didn't matter because Blair would be there to share it with him and make the experience richer. Finding himself so utterly domesticated was amusing enough to bring a small smile to his face, but it was also comfortable, even comforting, and that made him happy too. Best of all, he'd called home when his shift ended and Blair had been there, and had offered to make dinner. No special occasion, just a random impulse of affectionate generosity, and that made Jim happy in the best way.

His favorite parking spot was open and there were no stairs to climb to reach his front door. Inside, the loft held everything he loved: space, warmth, color, the smells of home and good food, and the sight of Blair, sprawled on the couch amid a pile of books. Papers spread all around him in a scruffy halo defining his arms' reach and, scattered among them, Jim could see bits and pieces of the complex collection of flotsam that accompanied him like an aura. He looked up and smiled, and Jim's happiness crested, filling his soul and expanding outward until his whole universe was complete. There was nothing else he needed, and he would have been satisfied if time had stopped at that moment so the rest of his life could be lived within its perfection.

There was a cold, opened beer in his hand and he took a deep swallow, the rounded hoppy flavor giving everything a golden glow that felt familiar. The association wasn't entirely pleasant, though, and Jim shifted uneasily, suddenly realizing there was a shadow off to the side that he didn't want to look at. A twist of anxiety beginning to sour the taste in his mouth, he fixed his gaze on Blair, hoping only to see those twilight blue eyes looking back at him with all the simple emotion they had always bestowed on him.

At first it was so, and he lifted the bottle for a salutary drink, but then Blair's eyes shifted to the side, his smile faded, and he stood up off the sofa. Books, papers, and scattered artifacts slid away, vanishing as they hit the floor, and Blair was sitting at the dining table waiting for him, hands folded stiffly where they rested in front of his chest.

 

* * *

 

 


	73. Chapter 73

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _No son of mine_

The table was long and narrow, the familiar satin steel swirls of its surface covered with a simple white linen cloth and an assortment of dishes and bowls of food, but Jim paid little attention to the strange collection of offerings. He was looking instead at all the people who'd shown up for dinner. There were at least a dozen, everyone from Major Crime and even, Jim saw with a sense of unhappy surprise, Pops and Stephen. He took a fast gulp of his beer, hoping it wasn't his birthday or, worse yet, someone else's that he'd forgotten about. On the other side of Blair, Simon sat looking with dark solemnity at him, and further down, near the foot of the table, Pops and Stephen were both grim-faced in their silent disapproval. The chill emanating from them was as solid as the wall between them had always seemed. Jim's beer bottle frosted over, and he shivered.

Still unwilling but without any options, he came slowly to the table, the thirteenth man at a cold feast. At his place was a bottle of dark wine and a loaf of flat bread. He didn't want the wine, and unleavened bread seemed cruelly frugal when there were so many better things on the table, but understanding that it was expected of him, he tore a piece of bread for himself and passed the rest to the man at his left. Though he hoped Blair was beside him, the hand that took the bread from him wasn't Blair's at all.

Jim shivered again, his heart heavy, and reached for the wine. The corkscrew was awkward in his hands and he fumbled with the bottle, still trying to find the right words for this grim, anonymous celebration. "For memory's sake," he managed at last, the safest compromise with ignorance he could devise, and the cork slid from the neck of the bottle, dripping wine as thick as blood.

"Ellison!" boomed a heavy voice, and for a moment Jim wasn't sure if it had been his father or Simon who spoke. He looked to Simon first, entirely willing to let him take over officiating at whatever this party was supposed to be. "You're going undercover," Simon said instead, pitiless command hard in his voice. "You need to leave now."

"But...." Jim wasn't enjoying the dinner, but he didn't want to leave the loft either. He hadn't even gotten to talk to Blair since he arrived home, and that made him feel cheated of something valuable.

"No 'buts'! Just do your job!"

How many times had he heard that in his life? Jim sighed, resigned, and set the wine bottle on the dresser in his bedroom.

 

* * *

It wasn't the clothes that Blair noticed first, or the people themselves. Not the dry, dead grass, or the scrub-covered hillside, or even the procession of cattle with their horns oiled and gleaming, thinly draped in garlands of straw as dusty and dry as the landscape, all moving slowly in the hot and bruising wind. The first thing Blair noticed as the door swung shut behind him, cutting off Dr. Buckner's final, angry expostulation, was the quality of light. In Cascade the light was fat and golden, its shadows always green with the promise of rain and incipient life. This place couldn't be Cascade, because the sunlight was piercingly thin and white-hot, casting shadows that were black and without depth upon the stony, barren ground.

Blair took another step forward, more alarmed at Jim's absence than at the unfamiliar landscape. He had heard shouts, ugly, bloodthirsty cries, and he had been terrified for Jim, but no one was shouting now. The families were chanting and singing as they drove their cattle forward, and their song was seductively liquid in the parched desert land. Blair followed the procession, keeping his distance even though there was nothing threatening about these dark, beautiful people leading their offering of cattle to an unknown destination deep in the wilderness. The only hostile thing around him was the climate, and it ruled the land. A hot wind blew Blair's hair off his forehead, scoured his cheeks and cracked his lips. What grass grew in this inhospitable place was so brown and brittle even the cattle scorned it. A line of twisted, stunted trees with tiny, hard leaves followed the trace of a long-dried riverbed to the west, where the hard blue sky was just beginning to shade orange on the horizon. There would be no rain tomorrow, either.

Rain. That was what these people were seeking, and suddenly Blair knew where he was and who these people were. It was as plain and inescapable as the cloudless blue sky. From time immemorial the King of the Rain and Storm had lived on a hill at Boma, near the mouth of the Congo. Every spring the people of the surrounding countryside brought an offering of cattle and other good things, and in return, the king on the hillside drew rain down from the sky and gave life to the dying land. Blair was journeying with them to greet the Namvulu Vumu, the King of Rain and Storm.

No one had seen this ritual enacted in more than a hundred years, and yet somehow Blair was in the midst of it to bear witness. He would see the great lord stretch out his hand and bring rain down from the heavens, see the land turn green once more. The wonder of it dazzled him. There were so many questions about these rites, mysteries that would have remained sealed forever, except somehow Blair was going to be a part of it. His scholar's heart and his scholar's mind were filled with religious awe. He did not know how his presence was possible, but that detail didn't matter compared to the things he could learn. He journeyed forward, anxious not to miss a single, precious moment of the experience.

A single discomforting thought nagged at him, even in the midst of his joy, and it grew stronger and more insistent the further he walked. Something about why the people of the desert had scattered across the land and no longer brought offerings to the hillside in Boma. Something about why there was no longer a King of the Rain and Storm, and the rituals were abandoned and forgotten. Blair hurried forward, joining the caravan. No one gave him a second glance as he pushed his way through, overtaking the slow moving families and their offerings of cattle, making his way to the front of the long line.

The heat and the cloudless sky and the dead grass reminded him of what he should have remembered all along. Sometimes the lord on the hillside couldn't bring rain with his outstretched hand. Sometimes nothing would satisfy the thirst of the parched land but the lord's own life's blood. That was how the last had died, bound to a stunted oak tree and blooded like a butchered lamb. His life blood staining the tree and soaking into the ground had made the desert fertile for one more year, but there had never again been another King of Rain and Storm.

Dread tightened around Blair's heart as he thought about the last king's end, and he forced himself to move faster, trying to run through the desert heat, his hair sticking to the back of his neck and sticking to his face when the furnace wind was behind him. For the love of heaven, where was Jim? Blair shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun on the pale, dead soil and tried to see up ahead.

There, on the cliffs so far above him the top of the mesa wavered in the heat like a mirage lake, a familiar silhouette was outlined against the sky. A man who watched as the procession wound its way up through the pass, awaiting the arrival of his followers, the people who believed he could provide for them, protect them against everything, even the heat of the summer sun; awaiting their arrival because he had sworn to protect them, regardless of the cost to himself. _Oh no,_ Blair thought, running harder, panting in the heat. The blood was pounding in his temples and his heart throbbed as though it would burst. _Oh, no, **Jim.**_

 

* * *

"Do I have to go?" Jim asked, not expecting an answer from his empty bedroom. He knew what Blair would tell him, and that was why he didn't ask his friend. It would be too easy to defy his duty if Blair didn't want him to go either.

"So you're a quitter after all." The cutting voice was intimately familiar, and brought the same old sick feeling of helpless, bottled rage against injustice to Jim's stomach. He bowed his head, swallowing the bile back as his father demanded in the tone that haunted all Jim's memories of the past, "Don't make me regret raising you, Jimmy. Be the man you ought to have been, for once."

The words hurt, the way knowing that was what his father truly thought always had. All Jim had was all that he had ever had: his sense of justice and the courage to speak out for it honestly. "I don't want to go. That doesn't make me any less of a man, whatever you choose to believe."

"You're a coward, Jimmy boy, you always were. Always took the easy way out, even if it meant running out on your family." Standing as tall as he could, William Ellison was slightly shorter than Jim, but he towered above his son with the indignant righteousness that was the one constant Jim remembered about every exchange he had ever had with his father. "This is your job, your duty. Leave it, and you are no son of mine."

_What son of yours am I now?_ Jim didn't say the words, though they had churned within him since he was seventeen. He turned away and looked over the wire railing to the long table below. He could see Blair sitting down there, the light in his face as he laughed happily at something, then turned his eyes upward to Jim. There was enough trust and affection in that gaze to chase the sick chill from Jim's gut, and he turned resolutely back. "I don't want to go," he said firmly.

The tall form pointing a threatening finger at him was Simon, face thunderous with unforgiving disgust, the cigar clamped between his teeth not slurring his words at all. "You're afraid? The big macho army ranger sentinel wants to just go home and have a nice peaceful evening? That's not the way it works in my unit, Ellison. I give you an order, you follow it, got that?"

"Come on, Simon, give me a break," Jim tried, knowing he had rarely been able to cajole Banks from his authoritarian moods but putting on his best inoffensive smile anyway. Reaching for the half-full beer, he pushed it invitingly toward Simon. "Relax, have a brew, let's talk about this. I don't have to leave right this very minute, do I?"

It wasn't beer at all, but the tall bottle of dark, sour wine, and Simon wouldn't take it from him. "You do what you're told," he said. Flat and utterly uncompromising, the answer left Jim with the same unpalatable choice he had known was his from the beginning. He didn't want to go, all his hopes and desires rebelled against the command, but he had no alternative to offer that would excuse him from the obligation. Even knowing Blair would be at his side, whatever he chose, didn't give him a reason not to go, it only made it harder to leave. Like every other time in his life, he had the ability to defy everyone and do what he wanted to do; or he could be the good son, the good soldier, the good sentinel, and honorably carry out the duty he had been given, however barren the task left his life. When it came down to the moment of decision, he was incapable of making any other choice.

"All right," he said in defeat, weariness closing around him like a cold, damp shroud. "I'll do it."

His first step took him out of the warmth of the loft, into the secret rooms on the other side of the wall, and away from Blair. That was all right, because he didn't want Blair to leave the safety and joy of their home to follow him wherever his duty would take him. There was a dread wrapped around his heart only the knowledge Blair was happy and well could keep at bay.

 

* * *

 

 


	74. Chapter 74

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _From the May to the roses_

Blair ran through the wasteland as long as he could, toward the waiting king on the hillside, the willing sacrifice, toward Jim, but his feet sank deeply into the sand with every step, and the blazing midday sun beat mercilessly down upon him. The heat was like a terrible weight upon his back, and it grew more and more difficult to drag his feet up out of the powdery, hot sand for another step. He tried to keep his eyes fixed on the distant figure on the hillside, but sweat ran down his brow and blurred his vision. The sand burned his feet, and the voices of the folk behind him were steady and sweet and low, the rolling notes of grace and a hope of glory leaving the words unimportant. Who could believe they were pushing their way through a desert wasteland in order to lay violent hands upon their guardian and protector?

They continued singing as Blair stumbled on, slipping deeply in the cruel sand, half mad with thirst and exhaustion and concern for Jim, and their voices were as pure as a spring bubbling up from the deep places of the earth and spilling wantonly across the parched ground. The fragmentary image turned crimson with Blair's fear of Jim's blood soaking into the merciless desert. Blair forced himself to take another step, and then one more, and finally he stumbled to his knees, trying to call for Jim and managing only a gasp. His head dropped, the sand hot against his hands and knees, his hair matted with sweat and his mind frantic with exhausted desperation. Beautiful voices sang behind him, brighter than they had been, more joyous than liquid.

Rose of May, Come to the greenwood away, We will be merry all So we go from the May to the roses...

Blair slowly sat back on his haunches, raising his head, bathed in cool shadows. The air smelled of cedars and rich earth, damp with growing promise. The ground was soft with clover, and bluebells nodded in the shady spaces under the trees. Blair pulled a damask rose from his hair and lifted it to his face, inhaling deeply. He had been wrong, of course. There was no sacrifice, no blood. Just ritual and remembrance and the celebration of spring.

Blair stumbled to his feet. The crowd was ahead of him once more, their voices silvery with laugher and song. He hurried forward, wanting to catch up to them, certain that Jim was close at hand. The dappled sunlight on the forest floor was gentle and golden-white, the pale blossoms on the small flowering trees twinkling like stars under the branches of the great oaks and elms. Blair still held the damask rose as he ran easily, happily through the wide aisles of the forest. Galantus bloomed along the path with petals of waxy white, and the new leaves on the trees were the palest of greens. Everything was tender and alive, burgeoning with promise and the blessings of youth. Of course Jim was here, Blair was certain of it. Jim had never belonged anywhere else but here in the beautiful greenwood.

The young people before Blair on the path were bedecked with ribbons and flowers, and the king of May led the procession. Blair could just see his head above the others, crowned with a circlet of laurel. A muffled roar came from somewhere in the near distance, and as Blair realized he was hearing the rush of moving water, the forest fell away on either side, and Blair and the other celebrants found themselves in a clearing at the head of a great waterfall.

Mist rose from the base of the falls, and a rainbow arced across the sheer rock walls of the basin far below. The voices of the gathering fell silent in deference to the majesty of the place. Jim stood in the center of them all, his head bowed, his eyes closed. He was draped in woven white cloth belted with ivy and daisies, his legs and feet bare. His crown of green glowed in the light of the clearing, and in his hand he held a living branch of oak. Pinned among the oak leaves was his Cascade PD badge. Blair wanted desperately to speak to Jim, but he was held still and silent by the solemnity of Jim's mien. Someone plucked the branch from Jim's hands as Blair stood without speaking and threw it down into the rushing water.

Blair saw the badge sparkle as it was dashed away into the chasm.

 

* * *

Jim moved through the silent, secret rooms in the upper part of the loft with wonder. He was always surprised to find them, even though he remembered, once he was there, that they existed and he had always known how to get to them. They led to other places, homes that were also his, great mansions with high ceilings and large round rooms, mazes of comfortable luxury connected by complicated, sometimes secret passages. It was the wondrous sense of space and belonging he enjoyed, the knowledge he had finally found his own place in the world, that helped ease the sting of having to leave Blair behind. Blair knew about these places, and would be able to find him when he wanted to. They had found many of them together and Blair's passing touch lingered in them still.

After a time he left the big houses and their sculptured gardens, pushed outward by the memory he was on a mission. The safe places and the last hint of Blair's laughing presence vanished behind him and he found himself wandering through a series of eerie, open bazaars with stalls full of colorful objects. The fluorescent green, yellow, and orange stripes on fabrics and painted terra cotta pots glared painfully bright under a white actinic light that left the darker shades of red indistinguishable from black. When he tried to look closely at anything it would shift and change shape, contorting until his eyes began to hurt. Even when he realized that the objects themselves were not changing, rather that he was seeing deeper and deeper into their physical structure, he couldn't stop his eyes from trying to focus. Finally he had to force his vision to stay shallow and insensitive, abandoning his attempt look for clues in the details of his surroundings.

Clues to what, he wasn't sure, but he did know that whatever he was doing, it was somehow important to Blair and that made getting it done right all the more imperative. Moving with more purpose, he ignored the booths of brightly colored roses that called to him with delicate, lovely fragrances and strode down the long aisles in the marketplace. Deliberately refusing to look too closely at anything around himself, he kept scanning the length of his line of sight for a familiar shape, a pattern that would tell him he was going the right direction toward his appointed task. That was how he caught sight of the men who were following him.

There was only one at first, but once Jim was aware of that presence, he soon located the others, closing in around him like a pack of hyenas shadowing a lion's hunt. Many different places to hide were all around, but he knew he couldn't do that, not if he were to be absolutely certain that Blair would be safely out of their reach. The only course he had was to draw them away, and so he ran, fleeing down the aisles, his strides so long he sometimes was floating along, nearly flying. Behind him, the pursuers converged into a dark mob, running easily and staying on his track no matter how he dodged and twisted through narrow openings. He could hear their voices calling after him, caught between the melody of a song and the baying of a pack of hounds.

Jim turned a corner and nearly ran into a man standing in his path. Skidding to a halt, he tottered in place, wondering why the dark-draped figure of Death itself would have a familiar face staring out at him from under its black cowl. The hood was a momentary illusion, born of the shaggy black hair that hung around the face of a snitch he had never trusted. Behind him, the mob howled closer and he stepped to the side, simply wanting to dodge around this obstacle and keep running. As if dancing with him, the man turned also, still facing him and moving closer. Jim tried to backpedal, a surge of disgust twisting his mouth in a grimace, but he couldn't move fast enough to avoid the swift, suddenly intent approach.

At the last minute, Jim turned his head aside and cold, dry lips pressed to his cheek in hypocritical greeting and left a dull ache at the corner of his mouth. A shiver of cold ran over his skin and premonitory fear curled in his gut as the figure stepped back and raised its finger, pointing at him with deadly accusation. Though he tried to shout in denial, no sound came out of his throat to cover the quiet sound of his own name being spoken like an epithet. "Detective James Ellison," said the faintly familiar face, before a hot wind from behind Jim blew all the flesh off it, leaving a grinning skull to leer at him as the body collapsed. The pile of dark, smoking rags no longer impeded his flight, but it was too late for him, all the same. The syllables of his name seemed to hang in the air, ringing with malice, an inescapable stigma he had spent his life trying to redeem.

The wind wrapped around him, the heated humidity of it foul with too many scents for Jim to separate at once, and he knew it for the breath of his pursuers. They were closing in, singing louder in victory, but he was frozen in place, struggling in vain against the shell of thick, hardening mud that had encased him at the sound of his name. It was all he could do to reach for his gun as he turned to face the men who chased him. The SIG felt right in his hands, as natural as breathing, leading to bewildered betrayal when the hammer jammed as he pulled the trigger, leaving the weapon useless in his numb grip.

Like talons, the hands of his pursuers closed on him, grabbing at his arms, digging into his shoulders and forcing him to his knees. His gun was kicked away from his hand and spun off into the darkness that was closing around him. The bright colors and white light of the marketplace had faded into a greyish twilight that washed out all his surroundings until the sand under his knees was a pale, dirty grey shade, and the spiky clumps of grass that grew in it were an even uglier greyish green. It seemed fitting to him that while his freedom was being taken, his senses were dulling as well, and a little part of him was glad because he knew what was coming next, and he did not want to feel it. He was even more glad he had left Blair safely behind, and as the first blows fell, driving dull wedges of pain into his thighs and shoulders, he was thankful for the mercy that spared the better part of his soul from witnessing his ruin.

 

* * *

 

 


	75. Chapter 75

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His father's house_

It was all just ritual and symbol, Blair knew that. Playacting and memory. Tradition. At some time in the distant past, far away in the mists of prehistory, perhaps the King of May had been sacrificed in earnest, a luckless god-king chosen from among his fellows to reign for a few days or a few hours before being hurled to his death. But that was all in the past. This was a bloodless, if not entirely innocent, celebration of spring. The oak bough Jim had carried and the Cascade PD badge were only symbols of his office given to the gods of the land, not the man himself.

Blair told himself that, anyway, as he watched the bough and the glittering badge fall through the gauzy curtains of water rising from the base of the falls. There was nothing to be frightened of. No reason for the sinking feeling of dread that chilled him to the bone, despite the dappling of sunlight across the lush grass at the head of the cliff. It should have gladdened his heart; Jim was a magnificent King of May. The white of his tunic glowed in the morning light, and his eyes looked bluer than Blair remembered seeing before. Jim stood head and shoulders above the other celebrants, and with his noble brow wreathed in laurel, he could so easily have been one of the god-kings of old. The strongest, the most beautiful and wise, cut down and sacrificed in his prime in order to appease the jealous old gods of the earth.

Blair shuddered at the thought. There was such a thing as too much knowledge. Imagine him thinking about old blood sacrifices here in the Greenwood on such a beautiful day. He pushed his way through the crowd of celebrants, trying to reach Jim. He wanted to comfort Jim, who looked so serious and grim Blair wondered miserably if he had told Jim about this ritual's darker history. It didn't really matter, the man could figure it out whether Blair had told him anything or not. The symbolism was clear enough. Blair redoubled his efforts, frantically eager to banish Jim's fear and allow him a few hours quiet and peace in the forest. There were too many people around here anyway. They should go away somewhere alone together, leave the mob with its noises and demands behind them.

"Jim!" he shouted, frustrated by the wine-drunk, blissfully unhurried crowd. He snatched the roses from his hair and flung them to the ground, wanting to set himself off from the foolish, beautiful people around him. "Jim, over here."

Blair knew Jim heard, because he saw him flinch as though his voice had been a lash. For a long instant, though, Jim's head didn't turn, and the dull, cold embers of foreboding in Blair's breast burst into flame. "*Jim!*" he screamed.

Jim had to turn then, and on his face was written such wild, hopeless grief Blair cried out in despair as well. Jim closed his eyes and bowed his head, as though the sight of Blair was too much for him to bear, and for the first time Blair saw that what he had mistaken for garlands of flowering vines around Jim's wrists were in truth coarse, knotted ropes. There was no crown of laurel around his brow either, but a circlet woven of hawthorne branches. It had been forced down upon Jim's head so cruelly the long thorns pierced his flesh, and the blood was drying in long brown rivulets down his cheeks.

 

* * *

The blows had made Jim dizzy and disoriented, so at first he thought the sense of movement was merely his own vertigo and he looked around himself, expecting his surroundings to be dipping and weaving in a merry-go-round dance. It was all the more surreal to find he was the one moving, gliding above the silty grit as he was carried by two of the faceless mob, their hands digging like claws into his upper arms. Without being able to see where they were taking him, he knew with absolute certainty he did not want to go there, and he tried to get his feet underneath himself in order to resist being dragged forward.

The position he was in, hanging from his arms, left him no leverage and he couldn't force his legs to catch up with the rest of him. Quivering and protesting, his muscles sent back flashes of jagged pain instead of responding with the thoughtless, easy control he had always taken for granted. Gasping for breath, he lifted his head, trying to see where he was being taken, and what he saw made his bones feel watery with fear.

Looming above him was his father's house, its windows dark, many of them broken, the empty interior barely visible inside. Straggling shoots from long-dead rose bushes reached from the sand around him like black skeletal arms, grasping at him with wickedly hooked thorms dried to the consistency of old bones. Below the peeling, shifting walls of the blank-eyed house, the crumbling foundation was a wall of wet, dark concrete exuding the scents of decay and stale sewage. Like an open wound, a roughly arched cave entrance leered at him, leading to some hidden depth so dark he could see nothing at all inside, except for the malevolent gleam of two greenish-golden eyes glaring out at him.

A faint hint of pointed teeth were limned under the eyes, and the low, rumbling sound of a threatening growl made Jim jerk back frantically, yanking against the fierce holds on his arms. He had met that beast many times in his dreams, and all he could remember was he had always lost his life to it.

 

* * *

The Greenwood withered around Blair. As the great hardwoods twisted and shriveled, the bluebells at their roots turned gray, and a wind that smelled harshly of salt and the sea dashed the brittle petals away. The roar of the waterfall became the soulless crashing of the surf, and Blair screamed in rage and grief, because he recognized this place, and he could not bear to be here again. He could not bear that Jim should be here again. Not upon these terrible sands where the light and life in those gentle blue eyes had turned gray and brittle as the lost bluebells. He saw Jim just for an instant as he had been on the beach, crouched and mindless, crying out with the howling of the wind, and the picture seared Blair's soul. He would not live through this again. He could not.

He lurched forward across the beach shouting to Jim, weeping in rage, his own sanity a house built upon the shifting sands. If only he had been strong enough, if only he had known, this never would have happened. Yet it was happening again. It was more than heart and mind could bear, and Blair swore, with every quickening step, that he would change this. He would give his life to change this. And so the world changed around him as he ran. The air still smelled of the sea, but the ground underfoot became marshy and wet, and over the fishy stink of the ocean was the stagnant reek of the marsh. A bleak, gray dawn colored the sky. Gulls were screaming, and the legionnaires ranked across the boggy ground blocked his way.

Some were in uniform, but more were not, and the salty air was sour with raw wine. It was bitterly cold, but the soldiers did not seem to notice, intent only on the spectacle before them. Stationed at this bleak post at the outermost edges of the Empire, hungry for memories of home, they battened on a stern old winter festival. The Lord of the Saturnalia was bound to a crude scaffold before them, the remnants of his purple robe knotted about his thighs and a crown of iron weighing down his head.

It must have gone on for hours. Stripes from the lash criss-crossed the powerful body, trembling now in weariness and pain. As Blair tried to force his way through the line of soldiers, the lash fell once more, the crack of leather on flesh shocking in the stillness of the gray dawn. Jim's head came up, a grunt of agony escaping him. His face was streaked with blood and tears, but more terrible to Blair was the expression of exhausted resignation in Jim's shadowed eyes.

Jim knew. Blair could fight his way through every human society he'd ever studied in his young lifetime, and it still wouldn't change anything. Jim had known from the very first, the truth was old as mankind. The bravest and the strongest, the ones who loved most wisely and most well were always cut down by the rest. Mankind had never gotten over its old habit of offering up the beautiful ones first in the hopes of deflecting the jealous rage of a spiteful cosmos. Bound to the altar of Saturn or sent undercover to break up a smuggling ring, the end was the same: Jim's heart blood running red across the sand.

Blair hardly felt the hands of the soldiers upon him. All he knew was that he was not allowed to go to Jim's side. The men around him laughed as they forced Blair to his knees on the marshy ground. Not cruel or angry laugher, just the boisterous amusement of soldiers a long way away from home, finding what entertainment they could in bleak surroundings. Someone bent down to offer him a a wineskin, and when Blair turned his face away, upended it over Blair's head. The wine was warm and smelled like vinegar and blood. Blair heard the lash crack against Jim's bleeding body again, and when he screamed in protest, begging them to stop, someone planted a knee in the center of his back and pushed him to the ground.

He struggled for a moment, but there were too many above him, and they were far too strong, and so he spread his hands wide on either side of his head in silent surrender, and at once the pressure on his back lifted. A comradely hand wrapped around his arm and yanked him to his feet, and someone else whapped him on the back. They hadn't even noticed how desperately he was fighting. "Sober up, man," someone told him, and Blair realized they simply thought he was drunk. "Or you'll miss everything." Blair was pushed from man to man, scarred faces thrust close to his, laughing at him before pushing him on. Blair stumbled but managed to keep his feet, and then the last man he fell against grabbed his arm and yanked him around, and Blair found himself at the foot of the crude altar itself. The stones were spattered with blood.

 

* * *

 

 


	76. Chapter 76

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Not innocent_

Blair raised his head slowly, almost unable to look. Jim still hung upon the scaffolding that had been erected behind the altar, his arms spread wide and bound to the driftwood crosspiece with thin leather straps. His head hung down, blood dripping from his face like tears. His eyes were no longer resigned but vacant and empty, as though the man Blair had once known was already long gone. The soldier who had flogged Jim stood to one side, grinning at his fellows and panting from his exertions.

Blair didn't scream or cry out. He was beyond rage or grief or despair any longer. He just wanted to take Jim home. No one could stop him from doing that. It was the last thing he would ever be able to do for Jim -- who would dare stand in his way? He clambered up the stones of the altar, reaching desperately for the straps that kept Jim upright, but before he could even touch Jim, the nearest soldiers had caught him and pulled him down once more, and a not-ungentle voice told him, "No, son, not yet."

Blair struggled, but he was held easily by the men around him, and when he turned his head to see who dared to keep him from his last duty, he found himself face to face with their commanding officer. The centurion's breastplate gleamed in the dull sunlight, and the plumes in his helm were hollywood red. In one hand he held the whip that had been used on Jim, the bloodstained leather dull between his fingers. Blair whispered, "Please," but they dragged him away as the officer mounted the crude steps of the altar himself, leather soles creaking, and came to stand before Jim. "Your comrades will never forget you," he told Jim, who hung in his bonds more dead than alive. He coiled the thin, bloodstained lash once around Jim's throat, and then took either end of the leather rope in his clenched fists, scarred forearms tensing for the final slow pull. "And the Gods wait to welcome you."

 

* * *

Jim's captors weren't affected by his wild struggles or the dense, impermeable darkness ahead, and Jim wondered if he was being dragged toward the tunnel leading down to hell itself. Then his sentinel sight took over, penetrating the black shadows, and the resulting vision was worse than he had imagined. What he had thought were glaring golden eyes shifted, blinked, became ocean-blue, and he recognized Blair. For the first time Jim cried out, his voice rising in a despairing "No!" that echoed back mockingly from the walls of the cave. It wasn't his life that was lost, but his soul, and it would have been safe had Blair not brought it back with him to this place.

Blair called his name in return but it was a small, lost sound in the din of raucous laughter and cheerfully cruel speculations of Jim's captors. The touch of Blair's voice and presence should have been comforting, but Jim was so afraid of what was going to happen he couldn't relax and find the calm Blair normally brought. Even if he had been able to fight his way free of the morass of his own fear, he could never have subdued the rage that burned through him at the sight of Blair held by two thugs who grinned with death's-head smiles at his struggles.

The cave was lit with the red-orange glow of coals filling a brazier, its bowl supported on a tripod of black iron. Around the edges of the open area, the orange faded away into dark blue shadows where things he could not quite see clearly moved with slow, oozing deliberation. Jim struggled, but he was held securely against a cold, damp wall, his arms outspread. A sense of inevitability descended upon him as a heavy chain was lifted off the brazier, still smoking, then wrapped around his joints, pinning him to the stone. Behind his back, trapped between his body and the wall, something squirmed wetly in protest.

It was all part of the pattern of his life, he recognized that at last. It had never mattered what he knew or how hard he tried, or even how special his talents were, not in the end. When the final call was made each time, it was always somebody else's decision, and his duty had always been to obey. He let his head drop forward, watching the reflections of yellow torch light playing on the wet floor like abstract art because he couldn't bear to meet Blair's eyes, not any longer. Jim knew too well what would show in his own. There was no strength left in his body or his heart, despite what his surrender would do to Blair, and his pain at knowing how this final defeat would hurt his friend was the one last thing he couldn't seem to let go of.

The flickering orange torchlight mixed with the darkness and a clear blue reflection had somehow entered the mix, all dancing together at his feet and in the drops of sweat his peripheral vision could see already rolling down his own chest. A whole universe of color twisted and beckoned, promising escape, and he went willingly, dropping himself into it, letting the dizziness come, and the great, deep silence Blair had always led him safely out of. The sounds of coarse laughter in the distance and harsh breathing in the small cave began to fade away, and the scents of stale beer and rank sweat filled his head, then dissipated as well. A single sound rose out of the gathering quiet, distant and thready at first, growing stronger as Jim left his body behind, becoming a beacon that held a promise of joy.

There was a time when he had held that sound close to him and all his fear and pain had been washed away, so he sought it again, letting everything else slide further into the distance. It took shape and he reached for it, recognizing Blair at last, when a sharp blade of pain cut across the world and left him gasping from the involuntary cry it had wrung from his throat. Colors and shapes resolved back into solid forms and sound returned, the echo of his scream captured in the high pitched call of a seagull circling overhead, the roar of the nearby surf mixing with the increasingly strident laughter of the men around him. Bewildered, he looked for the thing that had hurt him so, and found the glowing yellow tip of the poker that had touched his breast.

It moved forward inexorably, reaching like a thing alive to touch him again, and though he curled his spine and sucked in his stomach as much as he could, he did not buy himself any time. The tip landed where it would, and agony blossomed there, pulling Jim's breath from him and then letting it back only in sobbing gasps. His eyes blurred with tears that stung as they crossed his cheeks and left his vision hazy. A muscle twitched uncontrollably in his side, as if independently trying to flee, and was punished in the next moment with its own drop of deliberate fire. The sound of the surf crescendoed in his head, blocking out everything but the heat of pain spreading out in waves from the point of contact, leaving nerves vibrating in its wake so frantically the cool sea breeze caressing his skin felt like the burning of ice left to sit on his flesh.

Jim writhed, pulling in vain against the chains that held him, laid open and vulnerable to each carefully chosen press of the hot iron. After a time, he lost count of its visits, and a while after that, he was no longer aware of the shore or the sea. A dark voice whispered to him, reminding him that he had chosen this path of his own free will, and when he flinched away from the brown eyes, hell wrapped itself around him again.

When he could no longer hear words, only the voice and its insinuations digging in where the poker could not reach, he found the white, quiet place once more, and rejoiced. He would have stayed there forever, but for a pure, clear sound that called him back irresistibly. It was more compelling than release would have been, until he understood the words, but then it was too late to turn back and lose himself again and all he could do was weep silently while they cut out his heart.

"Let him go, he's no fun any more like this. You want something entertaining? Put me up there instead, I'll give you a better game."

 

* * *

As the whipcord tightened around Jim's throat, Jim's head came up, and though Blair had believed Jim was utterly, horrifically resigned to this unspeakable sacrifice, he saw Jim's chest rise once in a final gasp for breath, and Blair felt the gasp of hope in his own breast as well. If Jim hadn't given up completely, then there was still a chance. The madness of that hope freed his tongue, and he shouted in a voice he hardly recognized as his own, "You can't send him to the Gods. He isn't worthy."

Blair thought they would drag him away or at least try to silence him, but instead, wonderfully, the centurion who stood poised to strangle Jim suddenly unclenched his fists, allowing the whip to lie loosely around Jim's neck, and he turned to slowly to face Blair. "Speak," he said.

The soldiers around Blair had fallen back, awed or frightened by his daring, and Blair felt as though he were standing alone under the pewter gray sky as he argued for Jim's life. The face of the commanding officer shifted subtly, and for an instant Blair thought it was Simon who stood there before Jim's crucifix, but that wasn't quite right, and as the face of Jim's killer continued to change, Blair saw a man he had never met in his waking life, but whom he knew all the same. "He's not one of you," Blair said, choking a little on his hatred, and managing to speak despite it. "He would have betrayed you if you hadn't caught him first, don't you know that? He's not innocent. I am. Take me instead."

 

* * *

 

 


	77. Chapter 77

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Low and golden through the windows_

An instant of shocked silence descended upon the crowd, and Blair felt the weight of dream logic driving him irresistably forward. He had said the right words, taken the fatal step, and although there was nothing for him to do now but wait for the inevitable flow of events to carry him along on the path he could already see through to its end, it was still hard to see the way Jim's head swung up. It was harder still to watch Jim's dulled eyes suddenly spark with anguish. "Blair," he moaned, the only person speaking a word under the entire expanse of dull gray sky, and there was such despair in his voice, he might have been speaking for all the hurt in the universe. "Blair, **no**."

Blair squeezed his eyes shut. "Yes," he murmured for Jim's ears alone. "I'm sorry, Jim, but you have to let me do this." When he opened his eyes again, it was to see the centurion making an abrupt gesture, angry and obscene. Two legionnaires moved toward Jim, but Blair was faster, climbing to Jim's side at once. "I'll do it." The climb was not as difficult this time, the stones of the altar steady under his feet as he reached up to free Jim's arms.

The welts from the lash crossed Jim's body in neatly spaced stripes, nothing but the slow oozing of blood marring the symmetry of the torturer's art. The knotted ropes that bound Jim parted easily under Blair's hands, falling away and vanishing. Jim was shaking his head, half frantic with misery, but too weak to do more. "It's better this way," Blair told him, cradling Jim's face to stop his useless thrashing. "It'll be me now instead of you." Jim's right arm fell heavily once Blair pulled away the ropes, and he had been hanging for so long the change in position wrenched a hoarse scream from his throat. Blair cried out with him, and catching his forearm, pulled it over his own shoulder. "It's over now," he whispered urgently, leaning into Jim and trying to take as much of his weight as he could while he pulled at the ropes binding Jim's other arm.

It did seem that the bloody weals were already a little less vivid. "I can take it all away," Blair said, his voice trembling a little as he realized his greatest wish was coming true. He felt the shadow pains across his own chest, long blisters rising slowly under the skin, but they were such a small thing, if this were the price for Jim's life. There was a new ache around his wrists as well, and Blair raised his eyes, looking at his hands as they plucked at the ropes that still bound Jim. Dark, angry bruises had appeared around his own wrists, and as the final ropes gave way at last and Jim sagged into his arms, Blair glimpsed red-black striations rising through his own bruised flesh. The pain seemed to go as deep as the bone, but it was far less urgent than the welcome weight of Jim's body and the sound of Jim's breaths, still gasping harshly, but stronger as the life came back to him.

"Blair," he whispered, as Blair somehow found the stength to lift him down from the altar and lower him to the ground. Jim's weight filled his arms, but didn't overwhelm him. He knew Jim's legs were dragging along behind, and he was sorry he couldn't straighten his twisted limbs as he knelt, cradling Jim's head in his arms. "Blair," Jim whispered again, reaching up to clutch at Blair's arm, and Jim's grasp burned the welts rising on Blair's biceps. "Please don't do this. Please."

"Hush," Blair told him. The boggy ground was squelchy and too soft under his knees, and his shoulders and chest hurt, as though he were slowly suffocating, but he was still strong enough to hold Jim tenderly. He bent his neck and laid his cheek for a moment on Jim's forehead. The light changed, and Blair knew the soldiers were standing around them, waiting. He kept his voice from shaking as he promised Jim, "It's up to me now. I can do this."

Jim gasped, shaking his head against Blair's chest. "No," he insisted, his voice growing stronger. He released Blair's arm and reached up to knot his fist in Blair's hair, close to his temple. He dragged Blair's head down until they were almost nose to nose. "If you love me," Jim said, every word vibrating with such intensity Blair felt a charge in the air like an electrical storm, "If you love me, don't do this."

Blair covered Jim's hand with his own, his fingers between Jim's, and tugged gently to free himself from Jim's desperate grasp. He folded Jim's hand down to his chest and held it there so Jim couldn't reach for him again, and he put his other hand over Jim's mouth to stop his protest. "I do love you," Blair said, and had to close his eyes for a moment to shut out the sight of tears welling in Jim's eyes. "That's why I have to do this."

He felt Jim's tears touch the back of his hand, and he knew their time together was almost over. He felt a vague sense of shame at his cowardice then, and he opened his eyes as he carefully raised Jim's head just enough to shift him onto the ground, since he wouldn't be allowed to hold Jim any more. Jim cried out, and Blair had time only to touch his face for an instant in farewell before the soldiers were upon him.

 

* * *

Jim felt the iron chains holding him in place go as cold as his heart, everything around him collapsing into a lightless void that bore no resemblance to the welcoming white emptiness he had nearly lost himself in. For a moment he prayed he had misunderstood what he had heard, but even as he framed the thought, scattered and frantic in desperate fear, the tightening knot of ice in his chest knew otherwise. No other voice could have cut through to him like that, brought him back from the infinite peace where nothing else followed, and given life back to him when he no longer wanted it. He wished it did not have that power, for both their sakes.

The first gentle touch at his wrist drew a cry from him more anguished than the touch of the heated poker had earned, for in all its probing it had never touched his soul. Blair's hands released him from the chains, palms sliding over Jim's skin, warm where Jim's skin was cold, and soothingly cool where pain had left ragged heat as a memento of its presence. Around them the jeering of the gang of thugs had died, leaving only the sound of the sea and the quiet sound of Blair's breathing as he worked, and Jim concentrated on believing they were alone. If he could control his fear, he knew he could make everything else go away, leaving nothing but Blair's healing touch and the sound of his voice, and the peaceful haven of the loft around them. The light would be coming in low and golden through the windows, dust motes slowly circling like ponderous galaxies in the wide, warm beams.

The vision was gone in the next moment, as agony flared across his shoulders when his arm was released to fall to his side. All the light and warmth of the loft's illusion vanished, leaving the cold darkness around him broken only by the oasis of clear blue in Blair's eyes shining so close and intently as he began untwisting the chain on Jim's other arm. "No," Jim moaned, forcing the word past the weight in his chest. He tried to reach for Blair with his freed arm but could barely move it, the muscles tingling and useless as the circulation returned slowly.

Blair shook his head, somehow continuing to free Jim while his gaze stayed on Jim's face. "Shhh," he whispered, the gentle susurrus of his breath touching Jim's skin, warm and real as his hands taking away the weight of iron. "I want to help, so just shut up and let me do this, OK?" When he turned his head to look at what he was doing, the trailing ends of his hair brushed over Jim's face in echo of his voice's touch.

When Jim's other arm came free of the chains and dropped like a dead weight, Blair caught it, pulling it around his shoulders as he turned back toward Jim and slid an arm around his waist as well. It was necessary, Jim found, because his legs were weak and uncooperative, threatening to fold under him. It had been a long time since he'd been so scared he'd felt that peculiar weakness in his knees, and he hated himself for feeling it now, when he most needed the courage to stand up and refuse to let what he loved be taken away from him.

As Blair turned and gently lowered Jim's useless body to the wet, sandy ground, Jim realized the most difficult part to accept was that what he loved wasn't being taken away by force, it was leaving of its own accord. But then it had always been like that, his whole life, so there was no reason to expect anything else. He looked up into Blair's face and knew that the one thing he had ever really wanted in his life was what he had found in this friendship, and when it was gone, he would cease to exist as well. It would be a welcome end when it came, but he could not face what lay before that merciful departure. "You can't do this," he said desperately, reaching upward weakly as Blair cradled him for a moment, but nothing he could say seemed able to cross the lake of love in Blair's kind, shadowy eyes. "Don't you understand? I can't watch them hurt you, I couldn't stand it."

Blair smiled with all the patience he would have shown a slow child. "You idiot," he said with infinite fondness. "How do you think I feel seeing you like this? Trust me, my way is much easier."

"Not for me!" Jim cried, all the selfish need he had ever felt let loose in one agonized burst of self-pity. He was ashamed of it, and of his weakness in letting Blair see it, but even that shame would be an acceptable price if it could make Blair see this sacrifice wasn't worthwhile.

"Maybe not now, but it will be." Earnest and sincere, Blair was trying as hard as he could to make Jim believe with him.

 

* * *

 

 


	78. Chapter 78

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He was all alone._

Jim had never been able to understand how so much implacable determination could be wrapped in emotion so gentle and unseeing. "But..." Jim tried one last time, his protest silenced by the touch of Blair's fingers over his lips.

"No 'buts'." The words were an echo of the command that had sent him away from home and Blair's safety in the first place, and brought him to this point. Jim felt his heart flutter, and for a second he hoped wildly that it would stop beating entirely and spare him what was to come. "No," Blair said, his eyes filling as he read Jim's intent. "Not like that. Please, Jim, let me help."

_Then help me die now,_ he cried silently, but he couldn't say the words out loud, no more than he could have struck Blair with his hand. "Help me," was all that passed his lips, his voice faint and strangled with the need to stop Blair from making the worst mistake of his life.

Curling around him protectively, Blair whispered, "I am." His arms were strong as they embraced Jim, but his hands trembled where they touched his skin. Someone pulled at Blair from behind, shaking them roughly, and Blair resisted long enough to slide Jim carefully to the cold ground. Leaning forward quickly, only long enough to let his lips catch at the corner of Jim's mouth, he promised, "You'll understand, some day," his voice breaking at last.

As Blair was pulled up and away, forcibly dragged upright by two anonymous shapes that could have been men or demons, Jim raised a shaking hand to touch the corner of his mouth where Blair's kiss overlaid that of the one who had betrayed him. Life coursed sluggishly into his limbs and his breath came easier with each passing moment he was free, but his heart had gone completely dead, hanging like a cold black star in his chest.

 

* * *

Blair knew he was doing the right thing. The proof was in the welts rising across his own chest, the bruises and scoring around his wrists, but most of all in the strength and life flowing back to Jim as he lay upon the wet ground. His eyes were aware but anguished, and he clutched at Blair when he tried to leave him.

There was so little time. "No," Blair whispered urgently, struggling to free himself from Jim's grasp. The soldiers around them were growing impatient. "No, Jim, please be still. I've got it all worked out."

Jim didn't understand. He wouldn't let himself understand. So unyielding in his convictions when he thought justice was threatened. He'd always been that way. It was one of the things Blair loved about him, but that stubbornness couldn't help them now. If Jim kept fighting they would both be destroyed, and Blair wasn't about to let that happen. Not after so much, not when he finally had found a way to save him. "I'm sorry," he told Jim, knowing how angry Jim would be, how much Jim hated this. "But when it's all over they'll let you go, I promise. I'll tell them. I'm their emissary to the gods, so give me credit for having a little clout here, all right?"

He tried to distract Jim with his voice, but Jim wasn't distracted or fooled, not for an instant, and when Blair tried to bind his wrists together with the little roll of surgical gauze Jim fought him, as weak as he was.

The light changed as the soldiers pressed closer, grumbling impatiently. The sun was rising higher in the sky, and Blair was getting weaker. His wrists and shoulders ached, and his lungs were burning, every breath an effort. This was Jim's life he was saving, though, and so from somewhere he found the strength. He wrapped his arm around both Jim's forearms, hugging them to his chest. "I'm going to do this," he said, making his voice flat with determination. With his other hand he looped the thin white gauze around Jim's pinioned wrists. The gauze billowed out like a knight's standard, tattered and a little threadbare but pure and bright in the sunlight. "I'm going save you."

Jim cried out when he realized he was bound. Blair had time only to touch his face for an instant in farewell before the soldiers were upon him. He was lifted away with sudden violence, and for the first few instants, his body felt as light as a butterfly's wing. This wouldn't be so hard after all, he thought. He could have been floating as the legionnaires lifted him up to the scaffold. The wood was still warm from Jim's body.

He turned his head, then looked down, searching for Jim. He wanted to let Jim know that he wasn't afraid. Blair's arms were spread wide, the backs of his hands flat against the splintering boards and chipped paint. For some reason he couldn't see Jim through the confusion of soldiers standing hungry and restless before the altar. He wasn't afraid, he was **not** afraid, but somehow he had believed Jim would be near him at the end. Blair closed his eyes and began to feel the weight of his hanging body.

Surely it was better that Jim was gone. If their positions had been reversed, could he have borne to watch Jim tortured and killed? No, never. He would rather die.

He was going to die.

His body was getting heavier. His shoulders hurt, and the muscles in his neck were cramping. He had to take shallow breaths because it hurt too much to take deep ones. He rolled his head to the side, trying to find a position that was less painful, and looked along the length of his outstretched arm. He was tied wrist and elbow to a crosspiece of weather-beaten planking, and a fat, rusted spike had been driven through the palm of his hand.

He gasped in surprise and horror. His gasp hurt the back of his throat and made his lungs burn, but his hand hardly hurt at all. He turned his head cautiously to the other side, afraid of what he would find. That hand didn't hurt either, not really, but he closed his eyes before he could make himself look. Sure enough, when he finally opened them, he found his other hand had been impaled as well. His fingers curled numbly toward the square head of the spike. Hammering it through his palm must have broken bone, split tendon and muscle, severed nerves. He'd never spin a basketball on his finger again. Or hold a guitar pick. Or type a sentence.

Tears of shock and sudden grief welled up in his eyes. It didn't matter, he told himself furiously. He was going to die, and none of that stuff mattered anymore. Tears ran down his cheeks all the same and dripped from his jaw. That's what death meant. That nothing in your life mattered anymore.

He was afraid.

He looked desperately for Jim, no longer willing to believe Jim could have left him alone. Tears and sweat blurred his vision, and as he looked out across the soldiers, the rising sun glinted on their breastplates, blinding him. He blinked hard, trying to see, and everything shifted around him. Instead of legionnaires grimly encamped on a bleak salt marsh, a white beach stretched before him. Blair could hear the breakers behind him, smell the ocean's cold salt exhalation. The sun was hot on his straining shoulders, and he was all alone.

The beach frightened Blair even more than his own approaching death. He looked around desperately, panic swelling in his breast, frantic for Jim's presence even though he knew how selfish his fear and desire were. He was on the verge of crying out for Jim when he finally glanced down and found him at last.

His friend was crumpled at the foot of the altar, his wrists tied to the scaffold below Blair's feet, loose strands of surgical gauze fluttering around him. Blair's tears and blood pattered down on the sand and onto Jim's shoulders and back, streaking the pale, strong flesh with blood and salt water. Blair thought he saw a blurred image of patterns that had once stood for strength and invincibility, but then his tears blinded him, and once he had blinked them away, the faint traceries across Jim's body were only the marks of a clumsy, slow death happening very near at hand.

"Jim," he whispered, trying not let his voice shake. "Hey, it's all right. It doesn't hurt." The effort of speech exhausted him, and he panted for breath before he could finish what he meant to say. "It doesn't, not like it would have hurt you. Please --" He had to stop again, hording his breath and strength, and knew this was death as well, his very words stolen from him as his body failed him. "Please, I've got to know that you understand."

Jim didn't raise his head to look at Blair, but he dragged himself closer, pulling himself up until he could lay the side of his head against Blair's calf. The warmth of Jim's cheek against Blair's over-sensitized flesh was a painful surprise. Blair didn't have the strength to flinch or cry out, but Jim knew. He didn't draw away from Blair, but his shoulders trembled with grief. He still hadn't looked up, and Blair wondered how much Jim would allow himself to hear and feel of these last minutes and hours. Would he listen to the wheezing of Blair's lungs as his hanging body slowly suffocated? Could he feel the erratic, labored beat of Blair's stressed heart?

Blair already knew the answer, even as he tried to deny it by asking the question in the first place. Jim was listening to it all, feeling everything as intimately as a sentinel could. He wouldn't spare himself a single instant of Blair's death agonies, and Blair suddenly knew that Jim wouldn't survive them either. Jim's own heart would stop with Blair's if he stayed to witness the end.

"Jim," Blair whispered, and the effort of speech made his throat burn. "Get away from me. Please. Please."

Incredibly, impossibly, Jim laughed. A single harsh bark of sound, but Blair knew it was incredulous laughter. Jim didn't have the strength to look up, but he managed to speak, his head still resting against Blair's calf. "Too -- damned -- late to get rid of me now, Sandburg."

Jim knew the truth, too.

 

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Beach is an unfinished story being released serially. The posting schedule has, unfortunately, become completely random despite our best efforts to maintain a reliable presence.


End file.
